


A Bit Too Much Good Work

by a_t_rain



Category: Vorkosigan Saga - Lois McMaster Bujold
Genre: Book: Captain Vorpatril's Alliance, Case Fic, Class Issues, Cultural Differences, F/M, Gen, Imperial Security, Politics, Spies & Secret Agents
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-20
Updated: 2016-01-04
Packaged: 2018-04-05 05:57:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 25
Words: 96,074
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4168539
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/a_t_rain/pseuds/a_t_rain
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Behind the scenes of <i>Captain Vorpatril's Alliance</i>, Byerly grapples with bomb threats, Council of Counts politics, fallout from a previous case, and the difficulty of maintaining a romance when one's profession blurs the lines between lovers, colleagues, witnesses, and suspects.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A Typical 26.7-Hour Day at the Office

**Author's Note:**

> OK, so this is the By/Rish epic that I've been promising forever (and hope to finish before _Gentleman Jole and the Red Queen_ comes out and probably blows this story to bits). There's some very good By/Ivan casefic out there -- I particularly recommend ellen_fremedon's [Twenty-Year Man](http://archiveofourown.org/works/225955) and Tevildo's [By Any Means Necessary](http://archiveofourown.org/works/295509/chapters/472833) \-- but nobody seems to have done anything comparable for this pairing. Which is a shame, because there are some broad hints in CVA that Rish is elbows-deep in By's work (among other things, she has to have seen enough of it to make the observations in the second passage I've used as an epigraph!)
> 
> I'm going to try to keep to a roughly one-chapter-a-week posting schedule, although I make no absolute promises except that this story _will not_ become one of the abandoned WIPs littering the Internet.
> 
> There wasn't any way to tell this story without an abundance of OCs, and I know it's hard to remember all the names, so I've put up a [cheat-sheet post at LJ](http://a-t-rain.livejournal.com/285194.html) which I will update as new characters are introduced.

_Allegre nodded. “Vorrutyer does good work, on his level. It may actually have been a bit too much good work, lately...”_  
– _Captain Vorpatril’s Alliance_ , ch. 15

 _“... At first I thought he was in it for the money, and then for the mischief, and then I figured both of those were covers for this crazy Barrayaran patriotism all these Vor fellows go on and on about. Then I thought maybe it was for revenge, for nailing the guilty. Now I wonder if this furtive obsession for sorting truth from lies is actually in aid of clearing the innocent.”_  
_“That sounds like two sides of one coin, to me.”_  
_“Yeah, but it’s like the man bets tails, every time.”_  
– _Captain Vorpatril’s Alliance_ , ch. 13

 

**Chapter One: A Typical 26.7-Hour Day at the Office**

The less said about the Vormercier debriefing, the better. Of course, Byerly Vorrutyer wasn’t really a man of few words, so he would have told you about it in a fair amount of detail anyway.

He’d been arrested at the shuttleport – which he’d expected, since that was a standard ruse for getting undercover operatives into ImpSec discreetly. You could generally tell whether your handler was in a good mood by how gently, or not, the arresting officers handled you. Captain Eugene McSorley, it seemed, was _pissed_.

“McSorley, my love, I know you couldn’t wait to get the cuffs on me again, but don’t you think they’re a little _intimate_ for shuttleport wear?”

McSorley refused to dignify this comment with more than the briefest of eye-rolls. Major Guillaume, who had never met Byerly before, looked startled. The two lieutenants on the other side of the table, who were familiar with the Vorrutyer-and-McSorley double act, looked at each other and grinned.

As By sat there rubbing his wrists, he was, first off, raised a pay grade for several months of exhausting and hazardous work; and then promptly _docked_ one pay grade for involving someone who wasn’t officially need-to-know in his operations, even though Ivan _had_ known about his job for years. Also for saddling Barrayar with a couple of inconvenient, though extremely attractive, refugees from a Jacksonian Great House coup.

McSorley accused him of _white-knighting_ , a vague but dire transgression whose definition usually stretched far enough to fit any sin By might have committed. Anything that was clearly not _white-knighting_ fell into the general category of _trying to be an artist_ or, when McSorley was being unusually honest about the real cause of their spiky relationship, _being a high-born twit who thinks he’s above following rules_. (This last was particularly unfair, since By didn’t think he was _above_ following rules; it was just that other things often seemed to be more _important_.)

Byerly attempted to explain that it had been necessary to locate Tej’s apartment as a favor for Theo Vormercier, who had been trying to abduct her because he needed a quick influx of cash; that he’d attempted to make sure the girl was safely out of the way by encouraging Ivan to take her out on a date; that he hadn’t realized there was a _second_ , astonishingly competent young woman involved, and the women would manage to get _Ivan_ out of the way instead of the other way around; but luckily everything had ended well, at least for values of “well” that included an almost-kidnapping, two attempted-but-fortunately-not-completed suicides, a hasty marriage of convenience, and ImpSec getting handed a bill for the destruction of Ivan’s electronic door lock. (This was another McSorley crime, though a lesser one: _giving overly Byzantine explanations_. But what else were you supposed to do if you had an overly Byzantine _life?_ )

“But,” asked one of the lieutenants when he had finished, “why didn’t you simply tell Vormercier you hadn’t been able to locate the girl?”

“Because,” By explained wearily, “Vormercier was getting to the _loyalty-testing_ stage of paranoia. If I hadn’t found a reasonably large favor to do for him at that point, it’s likely that I would have suffered a breath-mask accident. An _embarrassing_ breath-mask accident, if I have any sense of how his mind works. Are any of you familiar with the concept of _erotic asphyxiation_ , by any chance?”

There was a brief silence as five people contemplated erotic asphyxiation. “Point taken,” said the lieutenant.

“Why _Captain Vorpatril_ , of all people?” asked Major Guillaume. “Did you _think_ about the fact that you were exposing a man who is _sixth in the line of succession_ to galactic kidnappers?”

“Well, no, I have to admit I _wasn’t_ thinking about that. I mean, to me, he’s just _Ivan_. He used to date my cousin. Back when he was a girl. When my cousin was a girl, I mean, not Ivan.” Because jump-lag did weird things to one’s brain, By found himself abruptly distracted by the question of what Ivan would be like as a girl, and decided it would be a good idea to stop talking.

“The high Vor,” remarked McSorley, with the air of a zoologist describing a peculiar species of animal, “are _different_ from you and me.” Byerly was not sure whether this remark referred to the idiocy of regarding the Emperor’s near relative as “just _Ivan_ ,” or to the phenomenon of one’s girl-cousins becoming male halfway through life, but as it seemed to be addressed to everyone in the room except _him_ , he ignored it.

“Look, it’s not like I had my _choice_ of potential confidants. I didn’t _know_ anybody else on Komarr who was remotely trustworthy, let alone anyone I could reasonably call on for a favor.”

McSorley and Major Guillaume lectured him a bit more, in tag-team, on the general irresponsibility of involving cousins-of-the-Emperor in undercover operations. (Byerly had reason to believe that ImpSec, as an institution, was _very hypocritical_ on this point, but since he wasn't supposed to know about that, he couldn't bring it up in his defense.) McSorley seemed principally concerned that the women could easily have taken Ivan as a hostage and held him for ransom, which was an alarmingly valid point; but Guillaume seemed more worried about the possibility that they might have somehow brainwashed him into becoming an interstellar terrorist.

“There isn’t enough _brain-soap in the galaxy_ to brainwash Ivan into becoming a terrorist,” Byerly finally protested. “Just trust me about this.”

“Vorrutyer would know, of course,” said McSorley, “since Captain Vorpatril used to date his cousin.”

To By’s experienced ears, this was clearly a sarcastic remark, laden with subtext about social privilege and not-so-old-boys’ networks; but fortunately, Guillaume decided to take it literally. Byerly wondered whether he was about to run off to the chemicals lab to ask about the formula for brain-soap.

After that, there were quite a lot of forms to fill out, and much tedious discussion of budgeting; the only amusing moment came when the other lieutenant decided to commend Byerly for the economics of his return transport arrangements.

McSorley snorted. “I doubt that Vorrutyer chose to share his cabin with two call girls from motives of _economy_.” (This comment caused Major Guillaume to acquire a very particular look of distress and confusion: _But I had just put him in this convenient little homosexual box, are you telling me he isn’t going to stay there?_)

McSorley’s suspicions, as usual, were half-right: it hadn’t been about economy. But it also hadn’t been about sex, although Byerly wouldn’t have been averse if either (or both) of them had been making the _offer_. Mostly, it had been about the fact that Desirée had been _completely freaked out_ , not without cause, and had refused to sleep unless he joined them and took the bunk nearest the door. Apparently, having a Y chromosome was the only qualification you needed to be a bodyguard. Byerly, who had never _met_ an assumption about masculinity that he didn’t immediately want to subvert, had tried to argue her out of it, and the other girl, Destinée, had rolled her eyes at the idea in a distinctly unflattering way that made him hope he’d get a chance to show off his bodyguarding skills after all. But in the end, the three of them had gotten along very well together. They had spent a lot of time playing an Old Earth game called _poker_ , which had been a mainstay of ImpSec training, and Destinée had become rather good at it, and had also absorbed all of the other lessons By had seen fit to impart to her.

He tried to explain all of this and put in a good word for Destinée, and McSorley nodded and said they were both already slated to begin at the women operatives’ training camp next week.

“Really? _Both_ of them?”

“They both came off well in your reports. And they were willing.”

“Any chance one of them could get assigned to my particular milieu? I could do with some backup.” He’d never been able to talk McSorley into allowing him to train and mentor potential operatives, the way Lev Brodsky had done for him. ( _You’d only teach them all of your bad habits, Vorrutyer_.) But surely he could be permitted to have a _colleague_ sometime, once ImpSec had done the training to its satisfaction.

“We’ll see,” said McSorley, in a tone that did not promise much.

After that, everyone spent at least an _hour_ hashing out exactly what the party line on Ivan’s impulsive marriage ought to be. Once they had agreed on something more or less close to the truth, with By’s role as ImpSec informer left out, McSorley informed him that he had an appointment with Lady Alys Vorpatril in the morning, and he could brief her then.

“But surely,” By tried hopefully, “she’ll have already heard the whole story from Ivan.”

“She specifically asked to hear it from _you_. And, by the way, once you’re out and about, you should spread the word that you’re going to be called in for further questioning, and you intend to cooperate. It’ll make all of our lives easier if you _can_ duck in and out of here over the next few weeks.”

“But people don’t really _confide_ in you if they know you’re about to be having a friendly chat with ImpSec,” By protested.

“You won’t need people to confide in you,” said McSorley. “Apart from general cleanup related to the Vormercier case, you have one charge until further notice, and it involves an individual who is already aware of your position. Which, by the way, you seem to have advertised rather _freely_ while you were on Komarr. You do understand the concept of _deep cover?_ ”

“I was dealing for information. I got more out of them with _dealing_ than any of you could have done with fast-penta. They’re _Jacksonians_ , that’s the language they speak. Um, which individual were you talking about?”

“The second girl. I’m going to trust Captain Vorpatril can keep an eye on his wife for now, but this other woman ought to have someone watching her. See what sort of contacts she makes here, find out what you can about the Jacksonian situation, let us know if she seems to be planning anything. Plus, it’s better people _meet_ her. If she keeps out of sight, even more lurid rumors are going to spread. So, take her out, turn on the charm, and try to get her to trust you. Also, watch out for anyone who might be trying to snatch her.”

“She’s not a _mutant_ , you understand,” added Major Guillaume apologetically. “It’s all genetic engineering.”

Guillaume had clearly never seen images or vids of Rish, or he wouldn’t be under the impression that being asked to take her out on the town constituted some sort of _penance_. A phrase from a Barrayaran children’s tale came to mind: _Oh no, please don’t throw me in the razor-grass patch._

With a carefully neutral expression, By looked across the table at his superiors. “I don’t know. You got my reports on my, uh, activities with certain people involved with the Vormoncrief case? I was sort of hoping to have a _break_ from that kind of thing.”

McSorley looked genuinely sympathetic. “You don’t have to _sleep_ with her if you don’t want to. It’s just a matter of taking her out and keeping an eye on her activities. You can put on a gay-best-friend act if you like, I know you can do that very convincingly. That might be the best thing, in fact, in terms of making her want to spend time with you without raising unnecessary complications.”

It was still unclear to Byerly whether he was supposed to be spying on Rish, guarding her, or simply showing her off, which struck him as an _unnecessary complication_ in itself, but he decided not to complain. “You understand, of course, that the lady’s quite sophisticated, and used to being treated like a queen? I’m going to need a _budget_ if I’m going to take her somewhere nice enough to make her want to spend time with me. _Particularly_ since I’ve just been deprived of a pay raise.”

“Fair point,” said Guillaume, taking an ImpSec credit chit from his pocket.

McSorley was frantically, though nonverbally, trying to signal Guillaume. The meaning of his gestures was all too clear to By: NO NO NO DO NOT GIVE THIS MAN A CREDIT CHIT! Guillaume, fortunately, seemed oblivious, since he was looking at By and not McSorley. The lieutenants were biting their lips, looking down at the table, and generally trying _not_ to roll around on the floor. Neither of them spoke up, from which By concluded that they had been betting on whether Vorrutyer or McSorley was going to win the next round. (It was a very strict rule, in games of that sort, that you didn’t intervene as events unfolded – not even when the man whose matrimonial prospects you were betting on decided to tie the knot a matter of _days_ before his thirty-fifth birthday and made you be his _witness_.)

He pocketed the credit chit, and had his suspicions confirmed when one of the lieutenants made an obscene gesture under the table, and the other one smirked.

Then there were some more forms to fill out, and lots of questions about impossibly minor details from his reports from Komarr, half of which he’d already forgotten. At one point, someone turned up with a box of Service-issued ready-meals; they were as soggy and bland as usual, and there wasn’t anything to drink with them but soda. Really, if McSorley had to eat that sort of thing on a regular basis, no _wonder_ he was usually in a bad mood. Still, By hadn’t actually had lunch, so he finished his anyway.

Some time later (between jump-lag and the windowless building, Byerly had long since lost track of time), McSorley looked sharply at him, ordered everyone else in the room to look at him too, and said, “For God’s sake find Vorrutyer somewhere he can get some sleep, and let him tell the rest to Lady Alys in the morning.” There were times when, in spite of everything, he had to like McSorley.

“Somewhere” turned out to be one of the witness apartments deep in the bowels of ImpSec. They were spartan, but clean and tolerably comfortable, and By tried not to think about how much he would rather be _home_. He threw himself onto the bed and fell into a thick, brain-fogged slumber.

* * *

Much too early in the morning, the janitor started rattling about in the corridor outside the apartment. Byerly rolled over and tried to ignore it for a few minutes, then decided he might as well get up in time to have a leisurely shower and a bit more time to dress. (Being properly groomed gave one a _psychological advantage_ , something that had been distinctly lacking in his dealings with the officers on the previous day.)

He inspected himself critically in the mirror: a bit haggard, still, for a man who was about to go courting, but conversely, not nearly pale or exhausted _enough_ for someone who was supposed to have been questioned all night under fast-penta. His employers always seemed to want him to be several contradictory things at once.

He got some dishwatery coffee in the cafeteria, and then went to turn in his expense report to Souzana in Accounting. The call girls were on ImpSec’s payroll as irregulars, and he’d filled out all the proper forms for that; he had receipts for enough liquor to float a boat; but Vormercier had also wanted drugs, and By hit an impasse when he had to explain to Souzana that _juba pushers didn’t give receipts_. He had explained this before, but it never took. The argument went through its usual permutations, ranging from “I had a discretionary budget of 80,000 marks for this project and all the right people signed off on it, so does the receipt part actually _matter?_ ” to “Well, there was a fellow asleep in a doorway just across the street, why don’t you go out and ask _him_ whether juba pushers give receipts? I can guarantee you he’ll be able to confirm the current street price, too.”

In the end, she _did_ call someone to confirm the price, only it was the Narcotics division of the municipal guards instead of the street-sleeper. Byerly had been doing admirably well at keeping a straight face, until Souzana asked, rather plaintively, “But are you absolutely _sure_ they don’t give receipts?” and he could _hear_ the guard laughing his head off at the other end of her wristcom. (You laughed in front of Souzana at your peril, since she always assumed people were laughing _at_ her; to be fair, she was usually right.)

She also got stroppy about the fact that the price he’d filled in on his expense forms didn’t match the municipal guard’s quote, even though he’d given the _Komarran_ street price, which was _lower_ because it had to be smuggled through fewer wormhole jumps. As this seemed an absurd thing to argue about, he re-filled the forms and pocketed the difference between the Komarran and Barrayaran prices. It was, he thought, insufficient recompense for having to deal with Souzana.

He glanced at the time: nine-thirty, still another hour before his meeting with Lady Alys. Enough time to stop by the Records office, where his colleague Alain Anderson greeted him with undisguised pleasure. “Welcome home! I heard you were back, so I brought Contraband. They wouldn’t let his carrier through security, so you’ll have to pick him up at the side entrance.”

“Thanks for looking after him. Did your girls enjoy his visit?”

“So much that we’ve decided to get them a kitten for Winterfair.”

“You’ve got two daughters. Why not _two_ kittens?”

“You know,” said Alain, “people _warn_ me about you sometimes. They warn me that you are going to lead me down the road of excess and dissipation. And when you make outrageous suggestions like that, I start to _believe_ them.” He poured coffee – _good_ coffee, this time – without being asked, and produced a packet of biscuits from his desk. “How was Komarr?”

“Domed.”

“Come _on_ , By!”

“Well, I didn’t really get to _see_ a lot of the place. Um, parts of Solstice are like a regular city, just under domes, and they’re so high you don’t really think about it. Parts are more like a space station. If you’re in a high-rise you can see outside the domes – very bleak, and there are these fantastic rock formations. There are vid screens _everywhere_ reminding you about breath-mask safety. There are a lot more women in the workforce, they do pretty much everything men do. And everybody, men and women, wears these loose trousers that aren’t very flattering on _anyone_ , but the jackets and shawls are nice.”

He wasn’t sure whether those were the kinds of details Alain wanted, but Alain was taking it all in eagerly. “I’m jealous. I’ve never been _anywhere_.”

“I’m not sure I’ve been to Komarr, in any meaningful way. Mostly, I spent the whole time hanging out with the Vormercier crowd, who aren’t just a nest of vice and treason, they’re _boring_. And, I’d add, boring in peculiarly Barrayaran ways, so it wasn’t very different from hanging out with them here.”

“Well, you’ve been other places. You’ve even been to _Earth_.”

“Yes, when I was nineteen and stupid. You’ll get there someday, and you’ll make far better use of the opportunity than I did. Think about it, Alain: all those glorious works of art, millennia-old castles and cathedrals, battlefields ... and I spent my time experimenting with old-Earth intoxicants. I could have gone to see Shakespeare in London. I didn’t even go to see _The Mousetrap_ , because I was too busy trying to find out what happens if you combine absinthe and hashish.”

“What _does_ happen if you combine absinthe and hashish?”

“Well ... you know how the Galactic Narcotics section of the training manual says THC is an anti-nausea drug? It isn’t a very effective one.”

Alain laughed. “But – you didn’t have any money when you were nineteen. How’d you swing it?”

“The usual ways. Sponged off of people, borrowed, got an under-the-table job in a dodgy pub, traded sex for lodgings, maxed out a credit chit and then threw it away. That last isn’t a good idea, by the way, it turns out to impede your ability to borrow in the future.”

“But you saw it all as _possible_. Your kind of people are brought up to imagine possibilities. Mine aren’t. I was taught to imagine a respectable job, a secondhand groundcar, _maybe_ the occasional holiday at a south coast resort if I saved very carefully.”

“There’s such a thing as imagining _too_ many possibilities. Theo Vormercier, for instance, seems to have imagined himself all the way to life in maximum-security prison, _if_ he’s lucky. If you’re going to romanticize something, Alain, _don’t_ romanticize being impoverished-high-Vor. All it gives people is a foolish sense of entitlement.”

“Can I still romanticize travel? Tell me more about Komarr.”

“Well, the shopping’s very good ... That reminds me, I brought you a souvenir. Thank-you gift for cat-sitting.”

Of course it was one of those Komarran jackets, because the only thing more fun than dressing himself was dressing other people, and Alain was one of the few men of his acquaintance who _permitted_ that sort of thing. (He’d had hopes of his cousin, Count Vorrutyer, but they’d been disappointed when Dono had declared himself to be thoroughly _sick_ of thinking about clothes.) Besides, Alain had the sort of cornflower-blue eyes that demanded to be _set off_.

Alain examined the lining of the jacket. “Thank you, but – this is really _good-quality_ , isn’t it? Handmade?”

“Of course. You think I'd buy you one of those knock-offs they sell at the souvenir stalls?”

“Can you even afford it?”

“Alain, sometimes you are the most hopeless _prole_. You _don’t_ ask questions like that, particularly not when someone gives you a gift.”

“Sorry.” Alain looked momentarily abashed, then thoughtful. “Can I ask what sort of favor you expect in return, then?”

“In really _high_ Vor circles, that would go unsaid ... But yes, you understand how the game is played.”

“What sort of favor _do_ you expect in return?”

“Nothing terribly difficult. I need copies of as many vids as you can find of a gengineered dance troupe from Jackson’s Whole, known as the Jewels of House Cordonah.”

“Um. There’s been kind of a run on the originals, including some requests from ... very high up. I can get copies through my counterpart in Galactic Affairs, but it’ll take a while.”

“No problem. It’s no hurry, I can wait until they’re finished with them. Also, and I _do_ need this as soon as you can manage it, I want you to look up whether there’s any precedent for hiring non-subjects of the Imperium as irregulars, or maybe even regular civilian operatives. I know it’s been done on the galactic side, but I want to know about Domestic Affairs.”

“Will do, but I don’t think that was a Komarran jacket’s worth of favors. You’re going to call in some more, aren’t you?”

“Yes, but I’m not sure yet what they are.”

“Good Lord, By, what are you _planning?_ ”

“You’ve heard about these women, our two refugees ...?”

“Nobody here has been talking about anything _else_ for the last week.”

“Right, well, I’ve been asked to take one of them out – the one who isn’t married to Ivan, obviously – accustom her to our strange backwater planet and vice versa, and keep an eye on her. The higher-ups seemed to be under the impression that this was some sort of _hardship_ , and I didn’t disabuse them. Oh, I’d almost forgotten, look what _I’ve_ got!”

Alain’s eyebrows shot up. “McSorley trusted you with a _credit chit?_ After the _last_ time?”

“Major Guillaume did. McSorley was frantically trying to signal him not to, but he didn’t pick it up in time.”

“I can _just imagine_ ,” said Alain, laughing. “Where are you taking her?”

“I was thinking Genevieve’s.”

Alain whistled. “Making the most of that credit chit, I see.”

“She’s _gengineered_. Enhanced senses. It would be criminal _not_ to take her to Genevieve’s. Anyway, that’s part of what I’m planning. This girl’s going to need a _job_ if she stays here much longer, and did you know she’s basically a trained operative _already?_ It seems Baronne Cordonah had them all spying on her party guests. It would be a shame to let her go to waste. I’ve needed _backup_ for ages, Alain, I wouldn’t have _had_ to involve an outsider in this whole Vormercier business if I’d had proper support, and if I can get buy-in from the higher-ups, I think this woman is about the most ideal partner I can imagine.”

Alain was so astonished by this speech that he said nothing at all for a minute or so, and then, rather feebly, “Is it really true that she’s _blue?_ ”

“A very attractive shade of blue, yes. It’s one of those things that _should_ be all wrong, but just ... isn’t.”

“Ah. An ideal partner in more than one sense?”

“Maybe.”

Alain started to get a knowing look, as if this conversation were finally making _sense_ to him. “I hate to say it, but I don’t see _how_ you get buy-in from the higher-ups. McSorley has an anarchic streak, but he won’t bite because it’s _you_ , and most of the others are hopelessly rule-bound. I think you might be better off taking the girl out, seeing if she likes you, and not trying to make things excessively complicated, just for a change. Always a bit dicey dating your colleagues anyway.”

“If I don’t succeed in making her my colleague, the alternative is _surveillance subject_.”

“Fair point, I guess that would make things ... awkward.”

“Yes. Rather.”

* * *

The security guard was pet-sitting not only Contraband, but a cage of white mice, which By’s cat was eyeing hungrily through the bars of his carrier. Byerly thought that _he_ might almost be willing to eat mice. He glanced at the time again: exactly 26.7 hours since he’d landed at the shuttleport, a full Barrayaran day. He’d had exactly one thing that might generously be termed a _meal_ during that time, unless you counted the fact that he’d just eaten Alain’s entire packet of biscuits. Alain, with his usual politeness, had not commented.

He collected the cat carrier and stepped outside onto the pavement. A light rain was falling; the fine, cold droplets made him feel awake and alive, in ways he hadn’t on climate-controlled Komarr. This was _his city_ , and stepping out onto these streets still gave him the same feeling of liberation he’d had when he first came here as an unsophisticated kid from the rural west. A lot had changed since then; most of the experiences he’d thought he wanted had long since palled; but this never got old, the rush of traffic and the constant pulse of human activity, and the sense of being at the center of the world. If he hadn’t been burdened with a suitcase, an overnight bag, and a cat carrier, he would have been tempted to decline the ride and walk to Lady Alys’s; as it was, he stepped into the ImpSec groundcar with some regret.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Of course _The Mousetrap_ will still be running in the thirty-first century or whenever it is. Can you doubt it?
> 
> This chapter is dedicated to the security guard at the Pentagon who spent a day pet-sitting my hamster, around 1986 or so, since my dad wasn't allowed to bring the cage into the building. And to everyone who has ever worked for a government agency of any sort.


	2. Not Exactly a Date

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Vorkosiverse communications technology seems to be, ahem, _strikingly_ similar to Earth technology at whatever date any given book was written, so I've seen fit to equip the wristcoms with something akin to text messaging, as well as the capacity to take photos and record voices. (The first feature is not absolutely critical to the plot; the other two will be.)

Lady Alys instructed her cook to offer Byerly soup and sandwiches, the first proper meal he’d had since breakfast _yesterday_ on the shuttle. She even apologized for not letting Contraband out of the cat carrier; it appeared that Illyan was allergic. His blind drop was an excellent hostess, which partially made up for the fact that she was also _formidable_.

“Has word got out about Ivan’s marriage?”

Byerly checked his wristcom, which he hadn’t had a chance to do since his arrival. _Lots_ of messages, but the one that mattered was from his cousin Dono: _You owe me 500 marks pay up!!!_ (It was a nuisance to switch between letters and punctuation marks on the wristcom’s messaging function, so most people saved all their punctuation for the end.) “Yes, I’d say that it _has_.”

“What story are we supposed to be telling?”

“More or less the truth with modifications. No point in pretending the girls are anybody except themselves. _I’m_ supposed to be an acquaintance that Ivan spotted on the street by chance and nabbed because he needed a known witness, having decided to marry Tej out of general gallantry and to keep her from being deported. He’s supposed to have met _her_ by chance, too, after wandering into the shop where she worked.”

Lady Alys nodded. “That hangs together. More or less, if you ignore the fact that my son has never before shown any inclination to propose to someone who might actually _accept_. Now, tell me exactly what _really_ happened.”

“Hasn’t Ivan –”

“I would like to have your ... point of view on the events.” This was another way of saying _I don’t actually want intel, I want gossip, and I know you’re the correct purveyor for that._

He retold the story, punctuated by many questions from Lady Alys. He braced himself for the inevitable lecture, and she did critique some of his decisions mercilessly, especially the part where he’d hired thugs to break into Tej’s apartment. (He tried to explain that he’d been assured by several previous clients that they were not at all _competent_ thugs, and that Vormercier might have picked better ones if he’d been left to his own devices, but this failed to mollify her.) However, she seemed rather less anxious about Ivan than McSorley had been. In fact, her general attitude seemed to be that being stunned and tied up by a couple of girls _had probably done him good_. (This was, in his experience, typical of high-Vor parenting, although one difference between Lady Alys and his own parents was that Lady Alys would have been genuinely upset if anything had actually _happened_ to her son.)

At last she asked, “Do you think he and Tej are well-matched?”

He’d been rehearsing possible answers to difficult questions from Lady Alys all morning, but he’d been expecting something along the lines of _Why did you send my only child into the path of kidnappers?_ or possibly _Why do I suddenly have a Jacksonian Great House for in-laws?_

“Um, well, I suppose they might be if they were, you know, _matched_. I thought this was supposed to be a marriage of convenience.”

Lady Alys gave him a Look.

“If you’re trying to sound me out about whether they’d be interested in making it _more_ than a marriage of convenience, I really, _really_ think you should be asking _Ivan_ that question.”

“Ivan won’t _know_ ,” she said, “until somebody else hits him over the head with it.”

“I don’t think Tej will be the one doing the hitting,” he acknowledged at last, “because she ... struck me as being a bit like a girl version of Ivan.”

She got another, very different sort of _look_ , an inward one that suggested she might be plotting something. Byerly decided to change the subject before she decided that _he_ ought to be the one doing the hitting.

“By the way, it appears that I’m under orders to take the other girl out and keep an eye on her. And, simultaneously, give people something to gossip about that isn’t the Vormercier case.”

“Yes, I know. I suggested it.”

Ah, _that_ put rather a different complexion on his new orders. There was, of course, no chance that McSorley or anyone else at ImpSec would have any interest in managing his love life; Lady Alys was a different matter. As much as he’d been thinking he’d enjoy a fling with Rish, the discovery instantly made him feel contrary.

“I thought,” Lady Alys continued, “that she could do with a bit of distraction.”

“Yes, good idea,” said Byerly absently, and then, “Wait, don’t you mean that she could _be_ a bit of distraction?”

“I mean,” said Lady Alys, “that the girl has lost her livelihood, her home, and nearly everyone she cares for at a single stroke, and that she hasn’t the luxury of expressing her grief because she feels the need to put up a brave front for someone younger and gentler. What she needs is distraction, amusement, and friendship. I thought you capable of empathizing with her circumstances, but if you’re not, I suppose I may as well leave her to Ivan.”

Byerly found himself simultaneously spluttering, apologizing, and protesting that he was perfectly capable of empathizing with Rish’s circumstances (in fact, when you phrased them _that_ way, they sounded much too familiar). He ended up by declaring his willingness to supply both friendship and amusement, as needed, in addition to his regular duties as surveillance operative. He felt like an utterly insensitive clod; Lady Alys had that effect on people. It was really quite unjust, because if he hadn’t been _ordered_ to keep an eye on Rish, of _course_ he would have seen her, first and foremost, as someone in need of help and comfort. Hadn’t he gotten tangled up with the girls in the first place because he wanted to keep them safe from Vormercier and everyone else who was after them?

The trouble with Lady Alys was that she was perfectly capable of managing a spy ring, offering aid and comfort to foreign refugees, _and_ engaging in a bit of matchmaking all at once, and unlike ordinary mortals, she didn’t seem to see any inherent _contradictions_ among those roles, even when the refugees and the spied-upon were the same people.

She was not, however, absolutely heartless, and after permitting him to squirm for a minute or two, she said more gently, “Yes, I thought you’d be up to it. And, you know, from what I’ve seen of her, I think the two of you might get along rather well.”

Because thirteen years of working with Lady Alys had taught him to _think_ like Lady Alys, he had an uncomfortable flash of insight about how Rish might look from _her_ perspective. She knew, of course, that he was a bachelor _not_ for the reason everyone assumed, but for two other, entirely different, reasons. Someone who was aware of his profession solved one of the problems; an off-worlder might be an elegant solution to the other. So, now that she’d serendipitously discovered an off-world girl who knew all about him, she wasn’t likely to give _up_ on pairing them off.

He wasn’t sure how he felt about that, but he consoled himself with the thought that even Lady Alys couldn’t marry people off by sheer force of will. Witness all of her difficulties with the Emperor, and with Ivan.

He pushed these thoughts aside and turned to more practical matters. “Is there anywhere in particular I’m supposed to be taking her?”

“Vitaly and Katya Vorzohn’s. They’re having a sort of a housewarming / end of the honeymoon party this evening, and I accepted the invitation on your behalf, if that’s all right.”

“Of course it’s all right. How many ImpSec men can say they have the same social secretary as the Emperor? By the way – just so I know what I’m walking into, and _not_ because I have the slightest desire to engage in idle gossip...”

(Lady Alys looked excessively skeptical at this, which was _most_ unfair, because she of all people ought to know that he only engaged in _purposeful_ gossip.)

“... is it the end of the honeymoon in the metaphorical as well as the literal sense?”

“I couldn’t possibly say,” said Lady Alys, in the sort of voice that meant that she probably _could_ say, but chose not to. Which meant yes.

* * *

Christos, Lady Alys’s driver, gave him a lift home. He liked his flat, which was in a historic Old Town building with high ceilings and graceful wrought-iron balconies: Time of Isolation elegance that had somehow weathered the storms of the last century. The neighborhood had been a bit dodgy when he’d first moved here, but was rapidly gentrifying; his cousin Dono fretted about the people who were being displaced, but as far as Byerly was concerned, the changes were _all_ to the good. It had been years since anyone had tried to mug him ... although his own reputation might have been a contributing factor. He might be a bit undersized and a lot overdressed, but the local criminal element had discovered the _hard_ way that he wasn’t such a soft target as he looked.

Contraband, released at last from his prison, curled up on the couch for a nap. Byerly was sorely tempted to join him, only he needed to call on Ivan as soon as possible. He left the unpacking for later and walked to Ivan’s much-newer and fancier building.

He was never quite sure what he thought of Ivan, who had been a very young officer when they first met. “Not exactly a man of hidden depths,” Donna had explained cheerfully, “but shallow ponds can be awfully nice to look at, don’t you think?” Ivan _was_ undeniably nice to look at, and Byerly had gotten into the habit of flirting with him – not because he had any intention of stealing Donna’s toys, but because it made Ivan visibly uncomfortable, and baiting military men had been one of By’s favorite recreations in those days. And then, much later, Ivan had slowly become less uncomfortable, and had turned out to have as many unconventional opinions as conventional ones, and a gift for snappy retorts that suggested a quick mind. Byerly thought, sometimes, that if he’d done the expected thing and gone to the Service Academy, he and Ivan might have been friends – but he hadn’t. He’d somehow ended up in a much more thankless form of service instead, and if Ivan sometimes acknowledged this with a flash of grudging respect, there had been too much old prejudice on both sides to leave room for anything warmer.

On this occasion, Ivan greeted him with characteristic surliness; but, mercifully, he was serving mimosas, which made up for a multitude of sins. Made with _good_ champagne, too.

He saw at a glance that Ivan and Tej had become lovers, as well as husband and wife. Well, _that_ would certainly explain the Lady Alys Inquisition.

Tej won his heart by asking him how one became a _spy_ , which sounded so much better than _informer_. It was, however, clearly _Rish_ who was interested in the answer to the question, and Byerly suspected at once that she’d made the same calculations as _he_ had about the value of her sensory enhancements and her prior training. She certainly grew more attentive when he mentioned that ImpSec tended to recruit civilians with some special skill or talent.

He then set about the business of asking Rish on a date-that-wasn’t-exactly-a-date, or at any rate, he hastily disclaimed it when she asked point blank. He was damned if he was going to give her an opportunity to turn down an actual _date_ -date with him in front of _Ivan_ , so he played up the adventurous, spy-ish aspects of the evening, and got a _yes_.

He felt only the slightest twinge of guilt about _not_ playing up the part where she was his surveillance subject. She was Jacksonian, so she’d understand how these things worked, and in any case, no doubt Ivan would point it out with great glee as soon as Byerly had gone.

* * *

Back home, By stopped at the corner shop for a few essential groceries, unpacked his bags and started a load of laundry, and set about trying to make his flat look less dusty. He attempted to explain to Contraband that all of this would be unnecessary if they had servants like _civilized_ people, but of course Contraband _had_ a servant, so he didn’t seem to care.

Byerly rubbed him between the ears. “How would you like it if we had company, old fellow? We don’t often have company.” Almost never, in fact. He tried not to bring _work_ home with him. He had a feeling that Rish was going to be an exception.

Still badly jump-lagged, he fell asleep on the couch for a few hours and woke up feeling much perkier, but ... oh, damn, was that the _time?_ He showered and depilated again, quickly, and picked out a dove-grey suit that wasn’t overly flashy but accentuated his slimness nicely. He rather thought _mature_ and _sophisticated_ were the right notes to strike here.

Another glance in the mirror reassured him that he was likely to make an acceptable impression: his dark curls had always been a shade too unruly, but they weren’t thinning or greying yet, so he’d made his peace with his hair. And the long-lashed eyes, curved mouth, and rather delicate features might be _all_ wrong for the prevailing Vor notions of masculinity, but taken on their own terms, he thought they were tolerably attractive. And quite a few other people had thought so, too...

* * *

Byerly didn’t own a groundcar, for reasons that had something to do with his chronic inability to save money, but more to do with the problem of maintaining his cover. His public persona had no visible source of income and a reputation for leaving bills unpaid (which he did – selectively, artistically, and temporarily). So getting the sort of car that required _financing_ was right out, because it would reveal that his credit rating wasn’t nearly as bad as it ought to be; but getting the kind of secondhand, dependable vehicle he could _afford_ would be worse, since it would be out of character. Being the sort of consummate urbanite who disdained cars was perfectly in character, and _free_. Besides, mooching a ride was always a good excuse for a tête-à-tête, and people tended to get _unguarded_ in their own cars.

When he arrived at Ivan’s, however, Rish seemed a little taken aback by the fact that he was proposing to _walk_. She appeared to be under the impression that the proper way to deal with late-autumn weather was to stay indoors. Apparently it was very cold on Jackson’s Whole, at least the part that she came from, and people stayed indoors most of the time.

“No, you see, here we go out, you just _wrap up_. It’s really quite pleasant. You get to wear nice coats and scarves and things.”

Since the only wrap Rish had brought with her was a fringed shawl that was delightful but mostly decorative, and the gengineering seemed to have made her temperature-sensitive, within the first block and a half of their walk she acquired By’s coat, scarf, and gloves. This, he decided, would not do. It was a level of gallantry and self-sacrifice that nobody who wasn’t _Ivan_ could be expected to maintain.

A happy thought occurred to him. “Let’s go _shopping_. They gave me a credit chit at work. It would be a shame not to _use_ it.” Besides, McSorley had actually _suggested_ putting on a gay-best-friend act, and if _that_ didn’t justify a shopping excursion at ImpSec’s expense, he didn’t know what did.

She had, as it turned out, excellent taste, and it was fun discovering which items went best with her coloring. Then he remembered that they were going to a housewarming party, so ImpSec really ought to spring for a vase or something for the Vorzohns. They arrived at Genevieve’s laden with parcels, more than half an hour after their reservation, but luckily the maître d’ knew that this was Byerly’s usual mode, and had kept a table for them anyway.

* * *

Rish contemplated her dinner companion. She and Tej had, naturally, looked up Byerly Vorrutyer on the Barrayaran information network, but he had been telling the truth when he said they wouldn’t find much. He existed, and had done so for thirty-nine years; about four and a half years earlier, he had turned Imperial Witness in a high-profile episode of political intrigue, in which he had apparently conspired with one of his first cousins to assault another one; and, most intriguingly, if the gossip columns could be trusted, he had attended the Emperor’s wedding shortly thereafter _as a guest of the cousin who had been assaulted_. Rish’s Jacksonian mind offered several possible explanations for this sequence of events, all of which suggested the man was probably worthy of admiration, though it was less clear whether he ought to be admired as a _human being_ or merely a very ingenious manipulator of persons and circumstances.

He made it into the gossip columns fairly regularly, most recently about six months ago, as the co-respondent in the divorce case of some people named Vorpennick. The columnist did not specify whether he’d been the wife’s lover or the husband’s.

At any rate, he was good-looking, if in a less-obvious way than Ivan, and intelligent (if in a _more_ obvious way than Ivan; there was little question that this one _knew_ he had brains, and was vain about them). He was also clearly an experienced flirt, and going out of his way to be charming. She wasn’t inclined to trust him much, but she also wasn’t inclined to _object_ to any of this.

“Do you want any local wine recommendations? It’ll have to be by the glass, I think, since we’ve got a long evening ahead of us, but it would be a shame to drink water at Genevieve’s, and soda is _right out_.”

She accepted his advice on wine, and on various menu items.

“By the way, that little “v” symbol on the menu means it’s made from vat-grown meat, in case you care about that.”

“I do. Thanks.”

He regarded her with a flicker of amusement. “And here I thought Jacksonians feasted on the flesh of their enemies.”

Rather a tired stereotype; Rish had expected better conversation from this one. “A chicken isn’t my enemy.”

“You’ve never been _woken up_ by one, have you?”

She had to laugh at that, and his eyes suddenly lit up. “Oh, _hold_ that look ... Yes, perfect. Did you know that you’re _magnetic_ when you smile? If you look like that at the party, you are _most definitely_ going to give them something to talk about.”

_Got a touch of the Pygmalions, have we?_ she thought, although she wasn’t sure whether his interest in her was attraction or just _artistry_. He was a lot more confusing than any natural, unmodified human being had the right to be.

“People don’t seem to be ... _looking_ at me much here.” She’d gotten a few cautious, curious glances from people who had at once turned back to their dinner companions. This annoyed her. She was _intended_ to be looked at. Byerly, at least, seemed to recognize that; he was definitely _looking_ , even if he was trying to be covert about it, and he was doing so with a blend of fascination and pleasure that she found entirely suitable.

“They wouldn’t, not at a place like Genevieve’s. Everyone here is too well-bred, and they all fancy themselves galactic even if they’ve never traveled off-world, which most of them _have_.”

“Galactic,” said Rish, amused. “Yes. Quite.”

This seemed to awaken a _tiny_ flicker of defensiveness, but he didn’t rise to the bait. “You’ll want to be more careful if you decide to go exploring in prole neighborhoods, especially if you go out drinking. Bring someone who’s going to have your back, at least until you’ve got the lay of the land.”

“Are you offering your services?”

“I wouldn’t be averse.”

The waiter took their orders and returned, shortly afterwards, with drinks. Byerly took a small bottle of pills from his coat pocket and washed one of them down with a sip of water. “If you’re thinking of trying any recreational drugs at this party, you should probably take one of these first. Anti-addictants, courtesy of my employers.”

“That will not be necessary,” said Rish. “I don’t have the _gene combinations_ that create the potential for addiction.”

“Oh, right. That would make sense. I suppose if you were going to design a person from scratch, of _course_ you’d leave that out.” He produced another bottle. “They gave me these anti-intoxicants as well, but I don’t usually bother. They give you a wicked hangover, and frankly, dealing with these people is a _lot_ less unpleasant if you can drink with some _effect_. But if you’d rather not, or you don’t trust your own tolerance, you’re welcome to some of these.”

“No, I don’t need any.”

Byerly pocketed the bottle, unopened. “A woman after my own heart. Speaking of which...” He glanced at the time and popped another pill from a third bottle, which he did not offer to her. “Something else my employers insist upon,” he said in answer to her questioning look. “No recreational potential at all, alas.”

“So, Ivan said you ought to brief me.”

“Right. Well, our host tonight is Vitaly Vorzohn, and whatever you do, _don’t_ ask him ‘Like the dystrophy?’”

“What dystrophy?”

“I guess I needn’t have mentioned it, then, but it’s a genetic disease common on Barrayar. One of Vitaly’s great-uncles was the medical researcher who diagnosed it, and ever since then, the family has been saddled with people who assume they _have_ it, so they aren’t very proud of their illustrious relative. The rest of the clan, need I say, hasn’t run to brains.”

“But,” said Rish, “if implying that someone has a genetic mutation is as deadly here as you and Ivan said it was, it’s hard to _blame_ them for not being proud of their great-uncle the researcher.”

“Fair point. But saying catty things about these people is one of the perks of my job.”

“In other words, don’t get between a man and his coping mechanism?”

“Yes. _Exactly_. Anyway, this crowd really shouldn’t be too dodgy, as much as Ivan was trying to imply otherwise. Lots of drinking, possibly some drugs, not much common sense, but no one at Vorzohn’s is likely to be involved in anything seriously criminal. They’re mostly just people with _money_ and no brains. It’s the ones with expensive tastes, no money, _and_ no brains who tend to get in over their heads.”

“And the ones with expensive tastes, no money, _and_ a great deal of brains who rat them out?”

This earned her a raised glass and an appreciative smile. _Not_ too sophisticated to be impervious to flattery, it seemed, and she’d gotten his particular brand of vanity right.

“So, if they’re not up to anything dodgy, what are we doing there?”

“Exactly what I told you. I’m there to satisfy people’s inevitable curiosity about _l’affaire Vormercier_ , and _you’re_ there, we hope, to give them something more interesting to talk about. And to, um, accommodate Barrayar to the sight of you.”

“And to keep me under your employer’s watchful eye?”

“Well,” By said smoothly, “I presumed that went without saying. You understand how this game is played; you’ve played it yourself, haven’t you?”

He smiled when he said that, and didn’t flush or break eye contact. What she _did_ notice was that his hand, which had been reaching for his water glass, trembled slightly and went for the wine instead. _Not quite so unembarrassed about being called on it as you like to pretend, hmm?_

The waiter turned up with salads: a concoction of several different types of greens, dried cranberries, toasted pecans, and some sort of sharp, crumbly white cheese. “So, tell me more about these people,” said Rish, after she’d taken a bite or two and found the flavors exquisitely balanced.

“If there _is_ anybody worth keeping their eye on at this party, they’ll be friends of Vitaly’s wife, Katya. They’ve not been married long ... she’s barely out of school and a good twenty years Vitaly’s junior, but as I’m sure you’ve observed for yourself, youth and guile have a way of triumphing over age and innocence.”

Rish did not smile. “If that’s a crack at Tej, I don’t like it.”

He looked genuinely surprised. “No, it _wasn’t_. Ivan’s not old enough to be innocent. Or innocent enough to be innocent, for that matter. It wasn’t even a crack at Katya, really. I played that game often enough when I was her age – male version, which _doesn’t_ generally end in marriage – so I’d be the last person to blame Katya for it. Anyway, Katya used to be _quite_ the party girl before she married Vitaly, but she seems to have dropped most of her old friendships, and the ones she’s kept are mostly respectable. Well, poor Evon Margraves may be _less_ respectable by the time Katya gets through with him.”

“He’s not one of those Vor-people.”

“No, I expect that’s why Katya didn’t marry _him_ instead of Vitaly. He’s got better looks and more conversation, but Vor girls think long and hard before they marry out of caste. They could just keep their own names – that’s sometimes done, nowadays – but they never seem to think of it. By the way, that’s a Margraves creation the lady at the next table is wearing – Evon’s family owns a chain of high-end dress shops. Their name was originally Margaritis, but they decided to class it up.”

“What would happen if they decided to start calling themselves _Vormargraves?_ ”

“Execution.” He did not smile.

“It sounds a bit barbaric.”

“It doesn’t ever actually _happen_ , because everybody knows the rules.”

“Are we going to be making any more jokes about Jacksonians feasting on the flesh of their enemies?”

He did a double take at this sudden turn in the conversation, then laughed in a way that expressed not only _appreciation_ , but honest-to-God _delight_. It made him look years younger. “No, I think we won’t, at that.”


	3. Other People's Parties

After thirteen years, Byerly’s public persona had become something he could slip on like a garment. It felt like an increasingly unattractive and ill-fitting garment, but it was _his_. And in part, _him_. He realized, on the Vorzohns’ doorstep, just how much he had _not_ been wearing it at Genevieve’s, and how much of a relief it had been to be dining with someone who knew who and what he was. Well, it was time to put it back on. His whole body slackened and his eyes narrowed, putting a little more _distance_ between himself and everyone he looked at.

Normally, he was _inconspicuous by being conspicuous_ : oh, it’s only By Vorrutyer, he turns up anywhere there are free drinks, can’t get rid of him. When he swept in with Rish on his arm, he was conspicuous, full stop. He found that he was rather enjoying it, and greeted Vitaly and Katya with a grin that was quite genuine.

The Vorzohns had hired a bartender, whom Byerly recognized from any number of other people’s parties. The man already knew his secret, or thought he did. “Your usual, sir?”

“Yes.” He accepted a _very_ weak gin and tonic, tipped generously, and said, with a flutter of the eyelashes and a limp-wristed wave, “Now remember, no letting on to other people how much of a lightweight I am.”

“Yes, sir.”

He could, in point of fact, drink men twice his size under the table, but sometimes not looking or acting like anyone’s ideal of masculinity was actually _useful_.

Rish stuck close to him for the first quarter of an hour or so, listening to hear how he introduced her and how he told the story of Ivan’s marriage, and then wandered off to mingle with the other guests. Covertly, he watched her; his mission was too simple to require more than half his attention, and the only real interest this evening held would be seeing how she handled herself. (Well, that and finally getting to say _exactly_ what he thought of Theo Vormercier.) As far as he could tell, she was doing well: _definitely_ arresting people’s attention, anyway.

Casually, without seeming to exert any influence whatsoever, he set about the business of aiming Vorbarr Sultana gossip in the directions where he wanted it to go and deflecting it from the ones he wished to avoid. Gossip was his vocation and his weapon. He really didn’t enjoy it as much as everyone assumed he did, but he was _good_ at it. He was pretty sure he could write a _doctoral dissertation_ on gossip, although he wasn’t sure what field that would be. Communications? Psychology? _Epidemiology?_

For example: Everyone knows (or thinks they know, which amounts to the same thing) that our hostess, Katya, is sleeping with Evon Margraves. For the first part of the evening, conversation in the dark and private corners of Vitaly’s home swirls around this topic, growing quiet at the approach of the supposedly-cuckolded husband, or (a bit more slowly) at the approach of the errant wife. ( _Katya_ seems not to be unconscious of the rumors, nor altogether displeased by their existence; still, there is a certain obligatory dance of deniability, and everybody knows the steps.) But there is more: Margraves _père_ (everyone knows) has heard the rumors too, and is displeased. You know how _puritanical_ men of that class and generation are. (We are now in the realm of _meta-gossip_.) And so Evon stands on the brink of losing an inheritance of – two million marks? four million? eight million? (This is an illustration of the mathematical principle of _exponential growth_.) But the extraordinary part is this: as soon as Evon, the person most nearly concerned, arrives at the party, all discussion of the topic melts away like mist before the sun. Except – not. It will still be there, only invisible, and if you of all men are not allowed to look at it full-on, Evon, you of all men cannot fight it.

Vapor.

Byerly shivered a little; blinked; realized that he’d finished his drink without tasting it, and that he’d been carrying on a lively conversation without having the slightest recollection of what he’d actually _said_. He’d been doing that a little too often, lately: slipping into autopilot without realizing it. He glanced over at Rish; she was chatting with Katya Vorzohn and a few of the other young women, who had clustered around her in fascination. She seemed to be enjoying herself. She was also absorbing canapés at a great rate, although he wondered how anyone could possibly be _hungry_ after dinner at Genevieve’s.

Mostly, people seemed more interested in where Byerly had picked up Rish than they were in the Vormercier scandal – which was good, exactly how things were supposed to go. One exception was Mick Vormeitner, noted connoisseur of recreational chemicals, who wanted to know what fast-penta felt like. Byerly was able to give him an accurate description. They made you experience it for yourself in training camp, partly because somebody _always_ asked that question and partly, he suspected, as a way of reminding you that you didn’t get to _have_ any secrets from ImpSec.

“Is it any fun?”

“Momentarily. But after you come out of it, you get a particularly nasty version of whatever your usual hangover symptoms are like.” His, if memory served, had run to despair, self-loathing, and existential horror; he’d envied Alain, who had just gotten a severe headache.

Mick seemed undaunted by this. “D’you know how I could score some?”

“Sorry, can’t help you there. I think you’d need to know someone really corrupt at ImpSec.”

“Did any of them _look_ really corrupt?” Mick asked hopefully.

“They _all_ looked really corrupt. You have no idea how _unaesthetic_ those people are. I think they’ve all spent so much time in that appalling building that they’ve started to _resemble_ it.”

Mick smirked. “Didn’t one of your _ancestors_ design that building?”

“ _Not_ a direct ancestor. He was a great-uncle, or maybe a cousin twice-removed ... something along those lines.”

“In _your_ family, the same people are usually all three.”

“Hey, Mick, why don’t you try making those jokes about your _own_ family? They’re at least as inbred as mine. Probably more so, to judge by the _results_.”

Byerly wondered if his younger-self had been as annoying as Mick was. Hell, he was probably _still_ as annoying as Mick was. It wasn’t like he’d ever been allowed to grow out of it, not in public.

He excused himself, ordered a second drink, and sloshed a generous amount of it onto his shirt, ensuring that he would smell like gin for the rest of the night.

He nodded to Evon Margraves, whom he actually _liked_ , and tried to calculate whether there was any way to warn Evon that his relationship with his father had become everybody’s favorite topic for gossip. (This would have been easier to manage if Evon had liked _Byerly_ , but of course most sensible people didn’t.) Before he could attempt to draw Margraves aside, Fyodora Vorkenna pounced on him.

“Can’t you do something about your cousin?” she asked in a plaintive tone.

 _Which cousin?_ Byerly wondered. If you took the long view, at least half of the people in the room were cousins of sorts. If you narrowed it down to first cousins – well, Pierre was dead; he _had_ done something about his cousin Richars, namely putting him in prison; and Richars’s brothers hadn’t spoken to him since he turned Imperial Witness, _thank God_. That left only one cousin over whom he might reasonably be expected to have some influence, which meant the conversation was about to turn ... political.

“I doubt it,” he said, projecting ennui. “Politics are _such_ a bore. Not my wheelhouse, really.”

“But this is going to affect _everyone_. Well, maybe not _you_.”

He considered the various ways in which he might not count as an _everyone_ , and wondered what Dono’s latest crusade might be. Women in the Imperial Military Service, perhaps? Or maybe something to do with marriage laws? “I try not to get involved with things that don’t affect me. Learned my lesson about that while I was on Komarr. Did you know that they questioned me about Vormercier for _fifteen hours?_ ”

But Fyodora was not to be distracted. “But surely you agree that parents have the right to _choose_ the sort of school where they’re going to send their children.”

Ah, children, the third way in which he’d conspicuously failed to live up to the expectations of his world and caste. The only one, as it happened, about which he had occasional regrets, but those weren’t part of his public persona. “Of _course_ people have the right to choose where they send their brats, as long as they keep them well away from me.”

Inwardly, he’d perked up; whenever political people asked you to agree to some innocuous and reasonable-sounding statement, it was usually a sign that they were _up_ to something. Particularly when they sounded _piqued_ , which Fyodora did.

“Oh, good, so you’re with us. Do try to make Count Vorrutyer see reason, won’t you?”

“I’m not sure I have that much influence over my-cousin-the-Count. I’m the black sheep, as you might have noticed.” (Not that the Vorrutyers had ever exactly run to _white_ sheep. The best they had ever been able to manage was sort of dingy-grey.)

“Well ... do what you can,” said Fyodora. She might have been about to say something else, but Rish swooped down on them and dragged Byerly off.

“You looked like you wanted _rescuing_ ,” she said cheerfully.

“Yes and no. She’s a bore, but she was starting to interest me all the same.”

“Oh, sorry. Do you want me to see if I can ... reattach you to her?”

“No, it isn’t likely to be important. She was just trying to lobby me about some political thing my-cousin-the-Count is involved in.”

“I thought you were estranged from your family?”

“I make exceptions. This particular cousin is one of them.” He did his best to explain about Dono, who was sort of _hard_ to explain. He had been born Donna, for a start; and then, there was the fact that while he was working his way toward his controversial confirmation by the Council of Counts, he had posed as a reluctant and pragmatic Progressive who had been abandoned _by_ the Conservative faction, of which the Vorrutyers had traditionally been pillars. Almost immediately after Dono had become the Count, it became apparent that he was a _real_ Progressive – a _progressive’s_ Progressive – one might even say a radical. Byerly wasn’t altogether sure he agreed with his cousin’s politics – but then, there were times he wasn’t sure he _disagreed_ , either.

Another cluster of girls dragged Rish off to quiz her about Ivan’s new bride, and Byerly asked the bartender to top up his glass, this time with plain tonic water. Subsequently, he found a convenient door-frame to lean against, adopting a loose-limbed posture and slightly glazed expression.

When he was in this attitude, people tended to come up to him and offer random confidences, and on this occasion, the person was Valentin Vormirov. Valentin was useless for disinformation purposes because he didn’t _listen_ to other people, most of the time; he just wanted to talk. Specifically, he wanted to talk about the awfulness of his-uncle-the-Count, and By made vaguely sympathetic noises at first, although he privately grew less sympathetic when it appeared that Valentin and his widowed mother had actually _moved in_ with said uncle, voluntarily, for the purpose of sponging off of him. Byerly knew all about awful relatives, but surely the most sensible thing to do about them was to _move somewhere they weren’t_ , and even, if necessary, to _get a job_.

“He won’t let me play holo-games in the house,” Valentin complained, “and nobody is allowed to talk on a wristcom in his presence. Just because _he’s_ hopeless at modern technology, he always thinks people who _can_ use it are up to no good.”

Byerly nodded, thinking that if those were the worst of Count Vormirov’s crimes against humanity, they sounded very benign.

“And he looks down on me because I didn’t apply to the service academy. He never shuts _up_ about the glory days of his military career, specifically the whole three weeks he spent doing some sort of explosives-unit work during Vordarian’s Pretendership. He never mentions that the _other_ nineteen years and forty-nine weeks were in a desk job. And also, he absolutely _tyrannizes_ over that poor woman who’s helping him write his memoirs.”

This was the most interesting thing Valentin had said in Byerly’s entire acquaintance with him, since it was the first thing that had indicated less than absolute self-centeredness. “Is she good-looking?” By hazarded.

“Good Lord, no. Fortyish and _dowdy_.”

Byerly was willing to admit there was no real excuse for _dowdy_ , but _fortyish_ seemed unnecessarily cruel. No doubt it was the unconscious cruelty of twenty-five, but Valentin deserved to _pay_ for that. Besides, men had no business being picky about women’s clothes if they dressed as badly as Valentin did.

“Still, you can’t help feeling sorry for her. The old man doesn’t appreciate all she does for him in the least, he pretends she’s just the transcriptionist.”

“She’s more than that?”

“Editor, researcher, pretty much _wrote_ big chunks of the second volume. And, you know, fetches coffee and cooks for him and all that. She’s not a half-bad cook. Once he found that out, he started making her come in early enough to make breakfast for him and stay until after dinner, so he wouldn’t have to pay for a real cook. He’s _so_ cheap.”

“When I asked if she was good-looking,” By said casually, “I meant, is she the sort of person your _uncle_ might find good-looking? Of course, being a good cook might weigh more with him, at his time of life. And if he married her, her services would be free.”

He took a swallow of vaguely gin-scented tonic and walked away, leaving Valentin to think over the prospect of being cut out of his inheritance, Vormercier-style.

* * *

The evening wore on, quite successfully from By’s point of view. He decided to reward himself with a real drink. And a hit or two of the kavaweed Mick had brought, which was non-addictive, relaxing, and, he suspected, only illegal on Barrayar because people associated it with off-world degeneracy. It also heightened the senses, and By wondered if this was how Rish experienced the world all the time. Perhaps that was why she didn’t seem to be indulging. He wondered if it was too early to snag her and go home.

What did it say about him, he wondered, that he had a _job_ that consisted mostly of cadging free drinks and saying witty and cutting things about people, and he was thoroughly sick of it?

Screw it, he decided. He was going home. Preferably in Rish’s company. The Vorzohns’ guests were starting to drift away, even though – or perhaps _because_ – Katya, by now _magnificently_ drunk, had taken to hugging people and begging them to stay.

“ _Girlfriend_ ,” she breathed in Rish’s ear, “you’re gonna have to come again – and tell me _all about_ Jackson’s Whole ... is it really true that _everything’s legal?_ ”

“Yes,” said Rish with admirable gravity, “but that doesn’t make everything a good _idea_.”

Katya waved this consideration away. “Oh, but I _like_ things that are bad ideas.”

“She wouldn’t last a day there, you know,” said Rish as they went to get their wraps.

“No, I’d imagine not.”

Evon Margraves, sitting on the stairs by the coat closet, was _also_ magnificently drunk, which was unusual for him. “D’you think Katya’s gonna be all right? Sh’d I see her home?”

“Evon,” said By, as non-snarkily as he could manage, “she _is_ home. She lives here, now.”

“Oh ... crap. I keep forgetting.”

Byerly made a snap decision to call a groundcab, and to hustle the protesting Evon into it _with_ them before he could give the Vorbarr Sultana gossips more fuel. Rish didn’t seem entirely happy about the acquisition of a third wheel, but he figured he could make it up to her later.

Or not. “Got some time for debriefing?” he asked hopefully, when the cab deposited them at Evon’s building, which was right around the corner from Ivan’s.

“Better not. It’s late, I don’t want to keep Ivan waiting up to let me in.”

“You could spend the night at my place, if you wanted.”

She looked him over. “No, I don’t think so. Not tonight.”

 _Huh_. He’d been fairly sure they were getting along, on a personal as well as a professional level, and the refusal took him by surprise. Ye gods, could Ivan be _right_ that you weren’t supposed to invite women to your place on the first date? And how was he going to explain it if she decided she didn’t want to see him again, ever? _Sorry, McSorley, I propositioned my surveillance project and she didn’t take it well, you’re going to have to find somebody else..._

* * *

“I wouldn’t worry about it,” said Alain, when By called him to grumble about it. “You propositioned _me_ on the first day of training camp, and I still talk to you.”

“And on every day after that.”

“Yeah, but you didn’t _mean_ it after the first time.”

He’d never been sure whether Alain had known he _had_ been entirely serious the first time. He remembered a quick parry that had at once turned the thing into a running joke – a face-saving one, he saw now. Really, Alain was wasted on a desk job.

“If I were to try again with this woman, I would still mean it. And also, I’m supposed to be surveilling her.”

“Yeah, that makes things kind of complicated. You might have to choose either business or pleasure.”

“If she decides she doesn’t want to see any more of me, I’m not going to have the chance to choose _either_.”

“Well, if you really want my advice and you’re not just calling me at half-past-midnight to vent –”

“Did I wake you up? Sorry. But why didn’t you turn your com off?”

“I got out of the habit when you were on Komarr because _other_ people don’t call me at weird hours of the night. But it’s all right, I sort of missed it when you were away. Anyway, I’d hold off on escorting her to – business affairs for a day or two. Take her somewhere that clearly isn’t mission-related, and see how things go from there.”

Alain didn’t actually say _let her see that you’re capable of being something other than a hard-drinking socialite with a poisonous tongue and a ridiculously large wardrobe_ , but Byerly thought that was the intended message.

* * *

The next day, he snagged some rush tickets for a folk-dance troupe that was getting excellent reviews. It seemed suited to Rish’s interests, and one could just as easily habituate Barrayar to her, and vice versa, at a dance performance as anywhere else. The fact that it was a _rational_ way of spending the evening, suitable for a couple of cultured and intelligent people in their mid-to-all-right- _late_ -thirties, was a side bonus.

About ten minutes after he’d issued the invitation, and she’d accepted, he decided that it had clearly been _all_ wrong, and that having to sit through an evening of an amateurish, non-gengineered performance of primitive dances from a cultural backwater would be sheer torture for her. He couldn’t, however, see any way to get out of it other than falling suddenly and gravely ill, and if he did _that_ , the proper thing to do would be to offer his ticket to some other suitable escort – and there weren’t any suitable escorts at hand other than _Ivan_ , who might very easily decide that he had married the wrong girl after all. So that was that. They were going.

The theater was in a distant suburb, so they took the monorail. Trying to explain the concept of _public transit_ to a Jacksonian turned out to be unexpectedly amusing. At first, Rish was confused about why the Emperor would bother to have such a thing built if he wasn’t _personally_ planning to ride on it, although she eventually allowed that building useful things for one’s subjects could be shrewd politics. This led them to a discussion of taxation, which was unknown on Jackson’s Whole, although Rish did understand all about _protection money_ , and he supposed that was sort of the same thing.

Almost nobody stared at them on the monorail, which confirmed a private theory of By’s: Rish’s appearance was simply so far outside of ordinary Barrayaran experience that people’s brains _shorted out_ when they tried to process her.

After a few stops, she went quiet, and seemed to spend a lot of time looking out of the windows and keeping her eyes on the horizon. “Have you got motion sickness?” he asked, suddenly enlightened.

“Yes, but it’s all right, it isn’t very bad. I usually take tablets for it, but I didn’t realize we were going to be riding so far.”

“It’s _not_ all right, it won’t _do_ at all. If I’m going to make my da– ... um, companions sick, I insist on doing it through the sheer nauseating force of my personality.” They were just coming in to a stop, so he took her by the sleeve and steered her toward the doors. Some merciful power had equipped the platform with benches and a soda machine. A minute or two later, Rish was settled on one of the benches, taking small sips of soda and looking a bit less – well, _green_ wasn’t quite the right word, but definitely less shaky. She seemed, suddenly, very ordinary and human: more _touchable_.

He tried an arm around the shoulders, and found that it seemed to suit. “Feeling better?”

“Yes.”

“Is this a side effect of the gengineering, or is it just you?”

“You’re talking as if there were a _difference_ between the two. There isn’t.” She sounded _imperious_ , which usually seemed to be the case when someone raised questions about the Baronne’s ... modifications. Byerly thought that he could recognize a defensive reaction when he saw one.

“Are you going to be all right to go on,” he asked after a minute or two, “or shall we go back?”

“Let’s go on. When’s the next train? We’ll be late if we stay here much longer.”

“Fashionably late. They always start these things ten minutes late _because_ of people like me.”

* * *

Rish leaned forward against the upper-balcony railing, lips slightly parted, eyes wide with an interest that seemed at once personal and professional. He hadn’t been wrong to bring her here, after all. She was _loving_ it.

Every now and then, she whispered a question about the practice or provenance of the dances they were watching. He discovered that his own knowledge was all too scanty, consisting mostly of “Well, I’m not sure where it _came from_ , but they always do that one at weddings,” or, at best, “That’s a men’s dance originally, but nowadays you’ll see girls doing it more often than not.” The troupe came from the western part of the continent, a place he’d abandoned as soon as he came of age. Inexplicably, he was starting to feel a bit nostalgic, which was almost certainly a sign of premature senility.

“If someone who wasn’t Barrayaran tried adapting some of those dances,” she asked at one point, “would anyone here mind?”

“Goodness, no. We’d be flattered. We’re not used to our culture getting that much _attention_.”

At the intermission, he was standing in line to get a glass of wine for himself and some hot tea for Rish when he found himself directly in front of Lady Alys. She was shepherding a group of galactic diplomats and hadn’t much time to talk, but she wanted to know how things had gone at the Vorzohns’ party.

“It went well. They wanted to know all about Rish and forgot about the Vormercier scandal, just as expected. Oh, by the way, if Valentin Vormirov decides to poison his uncle the Count and his uncle’s secretary, it’s probably my fault.”

Lady Alys blinked. “Whatever did he _do_ to you?”

“He made un-called-for remarks about people who are _fortyish_.”

“Ah. Well, see if you can get him to do it _before_ his uncle decides to present us with the third volume of his memoirs for Winterfair.”

Really, Byerly thought, Lady Alys had a _refreshingly_ liberal attitude toward crimes that were purely domestic.

* * *

They took the return journey slowly, hopping off of the monorail every couple of stops and walking around on the platforms. Rish was apologetic, promising to take her motion sickness tablets next time; By found that he didn’t mind in the least. It left plenty of time for _conversation_. He asked about her impressions of the party on the previous night, and found them to be observant and astute, if a little naive about Barrayaran culture.

“So why does Evon Margraves’s father care if he’s sleeping with Katya Vorzohn?”

“Married woman. Marriage is _serious_ here.”

“Except when it’s temporary.”

“Well, yes,” said Byerly, wondering for the first time whether Ivan would find it as easy as expected to dissolve his marriage with Tej.

“Ivan’s been with married women before. He said so. And Ivan’s mother is living with a man she hasn’t married.”

“Yes, but Lady Alys is the sort of person who can make her own rules. People like the Margraves family don’t make the rules, no matter how much money they have. And they can always lose what they have, so they tend to take morality very seriously.”

“Do you think it’s actually a _moral_ issue? Who does it even harm?”

“Vitaly?” suggested Byerly, although he was inclined to think Rish had a point.

“But the husband is only harmed because your culture has decided he’s _supposed_ to be harmed. If everyone made up their minds tomorrow that it wasn’t a big deal ... then it wouldn’t be.”

“It’s a ... pretty strong attitude to reverse overnight. A generation ago, Vitaly would have felt obliged to challenge Evon to a duel.”

“Does the name _Vorpennick_ mean anything to you?”

There it was again: the well-aimed thrust from a wholly unexpected direction. He _liked_ that.

“Been doing a little research, have you? Look, first of all, I didn’t say _I_ was a great believer in the sanctity of marriage and all that, I’m just trying to explain how my _culture_ views it. Secondly – Sylvie Vorpennick had already made up her mind that she wanted a divorce, and by her account Philippe wanted it too, he just needed a little push. She asked me if I was willing to have a temporary, amicable, and very public love affair with her. Having no reputation to lose, I obliged. They got their divorce, Sylvie got the antique shop and Philippe got the art collection, we all went our separate ways. All very modern and civilized.”

It hadn’t really been quite that simple or that civilized, and Byerly still felt slightly uneasy about the whole affair, especially when he remembered what a happy couple the Vorpennicks had always seemed to be. Early forties, no children, fairly prominent on the Vorbarr Sultana arts scene. Still – Sylvie had definitely been _very_ unhappy when she came to him, and very positive that she needed a way out of her marriage.

“If they both wanted a divorce, why did they need _you?_ ”

This had been one of the questions that had been troubling him, actually. “I’m not sure. I assumed that Philippe had a lover of his own, and that it was a man, which would explain why he wouldn’t want to make it public. There’d always been some rumors in that direction.” (Of course, there were _always_ rumors, founded or not, about any Vor male who preferred art to armaments, and in Philippe's case, he hadn’t given them any particular credence before.)

“Does it make a difference whether it’s a man or a woman?”

“From the point of view of Philippe’s reputation? Unfortunately, yes. Very much so. So I can see why they might have wanted to fix things so Sylvie appeared to be the one at fault.”

“Very ... generous of her,” said Rish, in a voice that suggested he’d finally met someone whose cynicism _exceeded_ his own. For his part, he wasn’t about to rule out the possibility that Sylvie _was_ being generous. The Vorpennicks weren’t exactly his friends, because you couldn’t be _friends_ with people when you were lying to them about one of the most important facts of your life, but ... he liked them both, and thought they were good people, and _that_ was uncommon enough among his acquaintances.

When they got back to Ivan’s, he asked, “Any interest in seeing some of the Vorbarr Sultana nightlife tomorrow? Or ...” he added hopefully, “... we could just stay in and have dinner at my place.”

“Will there be any disinformation to spread at your place?”

“Well, I suppose we could, you know, disinform each other.”

She looked at him, eyebrows slightly raised. “That sounds intriguing. I think I’d like that.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wrote a backstory ficlet about By and Alain's fast-penta experience in training camp, which you can find [here](http://archiveofourown.org/works/4259301). (I may post a few more associated bits and pieces of backstory and side-story as this fic progresses, since I've written or at least thought out a lot of it.)


	4. Disinforming Each Other

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Right, so this is the chapter where I try to write an actual sex scene, and it ends up being a series of conversations about cats and agriculture. I think I kind of fail at fanfic.
> 
> Rish's turn for a bonus backstory ficlet, this week: [Loyalty](http://archiveofourown.org/works/4314537).

Byerly flicked the door remote, and at the same time turned on some music: a folk group from the west, fronted by a girl with a voice that would make angels weep, because he’d wanted something that was both distinctly Barrayaran and unmistakably _beautiful_. His home was a godforsaken place, but it _had_ produced some haunting murder ballads and timeless love songs, and he wanted Rish to know about them.

It wasn’t, of course, anything his town-clown persona would have been caught dead listening to, and Rish, bless her, tumbled to that right away. She looked around his flat, taking in the narrow walls and high ceilings, the books (rather a lot of books, the old-fashioned paper kind), the three or four good pieces of art he’d managed to find at prices he could almost afford. She smiled, very slightly. “Your apartment ... doesn’t seem absolutely _in character_.”

“I don’t usually bring business here.”

“You brought me here.”

“Yes.” He let her fill in the gaps. She was obviously doing so to her satisfaction.

He excused himself to get dinner started. “When you’re invited to the home of someone like me, you follow impoverished-high-Vor etiquette, which means you, the guest, get to sit on the couch and let your host bustle about in the kitchen. It’s impolite, you see, to call attention to the fact that we haven’t got armies of servants, as we all _ought_ to have if we hadn’t fallen on hard times.” He recalled, abruptly, that Rish would presumably have been one of the armies of servants, but luckily she didn’t seem offended. “If you imagine what it would be like to host twenty guests under those rules rather than one very charming one, you start to see why most high-Vor-fallen-on-hard-times are downright antisocial.”

“How long do the hard times usually last?”

“Forever, but we’re pretending that they’re temporary. You do exactly the opposite if you’re invited to a prole home, by the way. There, it would be impolite _not_ to offer to help.”

“Would I be invited there? I thought you said not to go into prole venues without backup.”

“I meant more – don’t go into bars and neighborhoods that look really _dodgy_ , and be aware that, uh, people who aren’t likely to have traveled much may not be used to anyone who looks – unusual – but that doesn’t mean any given _individual_ would necessarily share – well, _any_ given set of attitudes, really.”

McSorley, he thought, would have been _blistering_ about that bit of unthinking snobbery. Alain would have called him on it too, although Alain would have been faultlessly generous and kind while doing so, which was almost worse. Most of his hard-won education about matters of class had come at their hands; McSorley made him almost reflexively defensive, but also forced him to _think_ , once the first impulse to argue wore off. Alain, more than once, had made him _blush_.

* * *

Byerly had remembered to buy vat-grown lamb. He browned it with some garlic, and added rosemary and a generous amount of red wine. His cooking skills ran heavily to braising things in wine with garlic, which nearly _always_ turned out well. Plus, it was minimally labor-intensive and allowed you to spend plenty of time on the couch with your date, _and_ you got to drink the rest of the wine. Throw in a green salad, which you could make ahead of time, and some crusty bread from the corner bakery, and you had an excellent meal that was almost no trouble at all.

When he returned from the kitchen with the open bottle of wine and a couple of glasses, Rish had settled in on the couch and was petting Contraband, who fascinated her. Apparently, she had never met a non-gengineered animal before. She couldn’t believe that certain design features, such as retractable claws, were _natural_.

“He’s completely natural. He was a stray, a street cat who came in the window one day during ImpSec training. We hid him in the barracks for a month. That’s why he’s called Contraband.”

She looked doubtful. “I saw some stray cats yesterday. They didn’t have such long fur, and they were sort of patchy instead of black all over. Yours is much prettier.”

“ _I_ think he is, but none of that is gengineering, that’s just plain old-fashioned _breeding_. Contraband has _plenty_ of breeding – don’t you, Contraband? – even if he’d fallen on hard times when I met him.”

Rish looked speculatively at him, no doubt assessing the effects of plain old-fashioned breeding fallen on hard times, human variety. He would have been more confident about coming off well if her sole point of Barrayaran male comparison hadn’t been _Ivan_. Well, By had the Vorrutyer eyes, and knew how to use them. He leaned a little closer, although Rish was still absorbed by the cat.

“Oh, he’s started _rumbling_.”

“Purring. Here’s a blanket, you’d better get it between him and that lovely skirt you’re wearing before the claws come out again.”

“But he seems to like me.”

“Exactly. In about thirty seconds, he’s going to decide you’re his mother. When cats think they’ve found their mother, they _knead_. It can get prickly.”

Rish picked Contraband up and resettled him on top of the blanket. “But he can’t be a very young cat, if you had him during training.”

“No, he’s quite an old cat. I think he was a bit less than a year old then, so that would make him almost fourteen now.”

“Well. I don’t suppose anyone ever stops being ... mother-hungry.”

_Speak for yourself,_ he thought, _I don’t miss mine at all._ He bit it back before he could say it. It was obvious that she _had_ spoken for herself, which was odd, because he hadn’t realized Rish exactly _had_ a mother, as such.

“How long do natural cats live?”

“Upper teens. Sometimes as old as twenty.”

He was going to _miss_ Contraband when it happened, a fact which Rish presumably divined, because her next question was, “Wouldn’t it be better if they were designed to live longer?”

“Then they’d outlive the people who take care of them. That wouldn’t be good.”

“You could always make them tough enough to survive on their own.” She said this with a wintry smile. _Oh_ , he thought, she was tough enough to survive, no question about that, but he wanted to make her smile for _real_.

Contraband had stalked off, leaving Rish’s hands curled on top of the blanket. He took both of them in his own, and then _extraordinary_ things started to happen.

* * *

The hands, the hands were _remarkable_. They _spoke_. She’d noticed it at the party, the other night – she could tell from their angle and level of tightness whether it was business as usual or whether he was talking to someone he really disliked – but when they _touched_ her, it was an entirely different level of eloquence. _I know you’re unhappy; I would like to make it better; may I try?_

He wasn’t, actually, going to be able to make it better, but she thought she might enjoy letting him try. She answered him in kind, with a little pressure of her thumbs along his wrists, and got a quick squeeze in return. _Are we friends? All professional complications aside, I would like to be friends._

There was something improbably _shy_ about those hands, she realized with some amusement. Which made _sense_ of the apartment, and also of the tendency to acquire a drink as quickly as possible on social occasions. But he hadn’t had more than a sip or two this time, which made it the ideal moment to find out just how much of his interest was genuine.

She kissed him. And _unleashed_ those extraordinary hands, which were suddenly exploring her neck and hair: _oh yes please, I want this, I need this, I’m so glad you want it too..._

A moment of hesitancy, fingers running along the jawline: _Wait, I’m not so sure about this. I’m afraid one of us is going to end up getting hurt._

“All right?” she asked. “We can take it slower if you want.”

“Oh, no. I think this is quite a _good_ pace.” Back to the exploration: shoulders, sides, breasts: _may I? I’m surprised by this, were you expecting it? And are you enjoying yourself as much as I am?_

* * *

Well, _that_ had been interesting. Satisfying, too. She lay beside him on the living-room rug for a few minutes, listening to the steady rhythm of his heart and – something she’d never been able to pick up with any of her previous lovers – the faint _swish_ of his blood in between beats, like waves lapping the shore. Her senses got even sharper when she was _attuned_ to someone.

She liked the smell of him. A bit too _clean_ , at first, but ... oh yes, very nice, once events started unfolding. A drop or two of cologne – she would have to drop some hints that artificial fragrances did _not_ mix well with enhanced senses – but at least he hadn’t _bathed_ in the stuff like some of the guests at Vorzohn’s party.

It was all right, she decided, to like him, desire him, and even be taken by surprise by him, as long as he wanted her _more_. And he did want her very badly indeed, although, for a wild-caught, he wasn’t half-bad at dissembling. He was doing a tolerably convincing impression of a man who might not have been _expecting_ floor-of-the-living-room sex before dinner, but was prepared to greet it with the level of surprise and pleasure any normal male would have on such an occasion. All of the other emotions – that complicated blend of diffidence and longing and protectiveness and deep, deep _need_ – had been communicated only through touch, and Rish was sure he didn’t know how much he had been giving away. For once, he hadn’t even _talked_ very much, apart from “Contraceptive implant?” and (once he had discovered the concealed-carry stunner holster under her skirt) “Oh, I do like a girl who knows how to pack in _style_.” The last, she was pretty sure, had been a sincere, if unusual, compliment.

When they were talking about the Vorpennicks yesterday evening, he’d seemed to have a very _Jacksonian_ attitude toward sex: pragmatic, unsentimental, and conscious of its _usefulness_. His body was telling a different story. His _words_ hadn’t quite caught up.

“Well,” he said lightly, “that was a bit different from what I’d usually do for hors d’oeuvres ... I was just going to put out some cheese and crackers, but that would seem a bit anticlimactic now, don’t you think?”

“Cheese and crackers would be fine. I’m _starved_.” ( _And so, it seems, were you_.)

He rolled over and began to pull his clothes back on. “I’ve got to toss some carrots and things into the stew, anyway. Won’t be but a minute or two, make yourself comfortable.”

When he got back from the kitchen, he sat down at one end of the couch in an attitude that was positively _demure_ , although it did invite cuddling if she chose to settle herself beside him. He took a sip of wine and helped himself to a sliver of cheese.

“Trade?” he suggested.

_Ah yes_ , she thought, now we’re back on familiar territory. _Sex as fast-penta._

But the question he offered was, as far as she could tell, purely personal. “Why was it ‘no’ the other night and ‘yes’ right now?”

“One of the _first_ things they hammer into you, if you’re Betan-trained, is the importance of mutual consent. Especially if it’s the first time with someone, you have to be absolutely sure they’re consenting, and I wasn’t sure about you.” (There had been other reasons, too, such as the fact that if they were going to play the spies-in-love game, she wanted to make it clear that _she_ was the one setting the terms and timing. But she figured that explanation would hold his interest long enough for him to miss the others.)

“ _Consenting?_ My dear, I was the one who did the _inviting_.”

“You were drunk.”

“I wasn’t, actually. A bit lightheaded, maybe, but that’s all. If you ever see me when I really _am_ drunk, you’ll be able to tell the difference.”

“All right. But I don’t know how to tell the difference _yet_. And I could tell you weren’t absolutely _uninterested_ , the other night, but I didn’t have any way of knowing how much of it was alcohol, and how much of it was – was you working up to do what you were expected to do in the line of business, but really preferring to be with someone else, or no one at all. Because you _have_ done that before, haven’t you?”

“Um. Yes. How did you know?”

“I can smell that sort of thing. I know that before the first time we met you on Komarr, you’d been with at least five different people of various ages and sexes, in the space of about two days. And I kind of doubted most of it was for pleasure. Also, I could tell you _didn’t_ have sex with the call girls on your shuttle to Barrayar, even though you were trying to make it sound as if you had when you were talking to Ivan.”

He rolled up at the end of the couch and went _spiky_ , like his cat had when Rish had petted him the wrong way. The effect wasn’t quite the same when extendable claws were replaced with neatly manicured fingernails, but otherwise he was doing a pretty good imitation. However, he was also _interested_ , which eventually caused him to uncurl a little. “That is ... remarkably accurate,” he said in a rather detached voice. “Also a little unnerving. Five, you said? Yes, that would be Theo Vormercier’s mistress, his valet, one of the bartenders, and a couple of the guests. It’s, um, you get some interesting confessions that way. Well, you appear to have taken mine, so I guess you know that.”

Ah. So he’d been having a lot of Jacksonian sex lately that he hadn’t actually _wanted_ , and was now craving the exact opposite, if Rish didn’t miss her guess. “Trade. Was any of it voluntary?”

“Not really. Well, the bartender was cute. And not sociopathic, as far as I could tell. I might have been interested even in my off hours.”

“Boy or girl bartender?”

“Male.”

“That was the other thing. I can usually tell when people are aroused, but pretty much every time I’d been around you at close range, you’d been in Ivan’s company, or that Margraves boy’s. So I wasn’t sure exactly how interested you were in _women_ , given a free choice.”

“Very interested,” he said, although by now Rish had already worked that out for herself. “Bisexuality is a _thing that exists_ , you know, it isn’t some mythical phenomenon that people make up when they’re really only interested in the same sex and don’t want to admit it.” He sounded _piqued_ , as if he were tired of having to correct people on this point – which was just as well, as it meant he was no longer thinking about how uniquely unnerving Rish’s abilities were. “All right. So, the voluntary question. Yes, I suppose it was, in the sense that if I ever gave my handler a definite _no_ , he’d honor that. You owe me a trade question, by the way, you’ve just asked two.”

“ _You_ got a follow-up question last time.”

“Only after you asked _me_ one. I’ve been counting, and you’re one up.”

“All right. Go on.”

“What would have happened if Baronne Cordonah _hadn’t_ discontinued your loyalty treatments?”

The really interesting feature of the trade game, Rish observed, was what people revealed about themselves by the _questions_ they picked. He _hadn’t_ gone for the obvious one about whether the Jewels were really high-class courtesans. (They weren’t. People who made that mistake were swiftly corrected. People who _persisted_ in making the mistake usually found themselves missing whichever body part they’d gotten overly aggressive with.)

She wasn’t sure what was behind the question he _had_ chosen, except that he _couldn’t_ be trying to gauge whether she resented the Baronne and could be talked into betraying her, which was the usual motive people had when they asked questions like that. Her mother was ... past the reach of treason now.

“Nothing very different from what’s happening right now. I would stay with Tej and look after her. Just like I’m doing.”

“And afterwards?”

“I don’t think I would care very much what happened afterwards.” _I’m not sure I do care what happens afterwards_ , she thought, and then: _Oh. So that’s what he’s after, he wants to make me as uncomfortable as I’ve just made him. He can be charming, but he’s definitely not nice._

“I see,” he said, and then, “I’m sorry.” She wasn’t quite sure if that was an I’m-sorry-for-your-loss or I’m-sorry-for-getting-too-personal, but then he covered her hands with his own again, and she thought perhaps it was something more like _I’m sorry for what has been done to you. I don’t think it’s right._

Which wasn’t _wrong_ , because after all the _Baronne_ had also decided it wasn’t right, and it wasn’t as bad as the open, and very awkward, pity Ivan had expressed at their first meeting. But it made her uneasy all the same.

* * *

Byerly stretched luxuriantly and propped himself up on one elbow, contemplating Rish. He felt simultaneously relaxed and refreshed, in the way that only really _good_ early-morning sex could accomplish.

“That was ... lovely,” he said, and kissed the gold-shot veins that ran under her left shoulder. God, what an absolutely gorgeous dancer’s body she had: lithe, firm, and deliciously androgynous. Also _astonishingly_ flexible. “You know, nothing we’ve done is at _all_ what I would have expected sex to be like with someone Betan-trained, but ... it’s just right, all the same.”

“What were you expecting?”

“I don’t know. Kinkier? One hears ... stories.”

“But you don’t really like that sort of thing,” she said. “Do you? I mean, if I’m wrong and you do, please tell me. _Ivan_ told us most of his preferences as soon as we met him. With you, I had to guess and ... experiment a little.”

“Ivan did?” he asked, diverted.

“Well, we’d just stunned him and tied him up. I think he was sort of ... free-associating.”

Byerly rolled over onto his stomach and laughed into the pillows, imagining the scene. “Just what _are_ Ivan’s preferences, dare I ask?”

“Ooh, am I detecting a slight crush on Ivan? Interested in a three-way?”

“Good God, no,” he said, although he had to admit the idea was sort of intriguing as long as it _stayed_ within the realm of fantasy. The fact that she'd suggested it with such utter casualness was even _more_ intriguing. “For a lot of reasons, the most important of which is that _Ivan_ wouldn’t be interested.”

“So. Not interested in people who aren’t interested back.”

“Definitely not.” He thought back to the previous evening – not those extraordinary things that had happened on the living-room rug, which had been spontaneous and instinctive, but their second, much longer, session. Yes, he _could_ see exactly where she’d been ... experimenting, and how she’d reached her conclusions, which were mostly correct. “ _Also_ not into anything involving pain, or restraint, or ... power-games of any sort. Even in play. Which eliminates a lot of the usual varieties of _kinky_.” (Not, of course, all of them; but he thought he’d let Rish have the fun of discovering that for herself.)

“See? You can _tell_ me these things, it’s easy.”

“Honestly, it’s been a while since I had a partner who _cared_ what I liked. Is that all that Betan training is?”

“Pretty much. It’s about being _attentive_ to your partner. And to yourself. You’ve got the first part _down_ , by the way. Why don’t we work on the second, hmm?”

“I’d like that,” he said, snuggling closer. She was delightfully _warm_ , which had surprised him a little. He supposed that was because of all the associations one usually had with the color blue. Well, maybe because of all of the associations he was starting to have with _Rish_. He liked her snap and toughness and cynicism, but he was finding her almost _irresistible_ when the defenses started to come down.

He dozed off for a bit, and the next thing he knew, Rish was inspecting his pillows. “These are so _soft_ ,” she remarked. “What are they filled with?”

“Down.”

“Like ... _feathers?_ From _birds?_ ”

“Yes. Geese, I think.” He supposed there was _no_ chance they were vat-grown geese, and hoped Rish wouldn’t ask awkward questions about that.

“Huh. That’s very ... quaint.” She was obviously having a little difficulty processing the concept, and he tried not to be too obviously amused. “I like the sheets, too. They’re _cool_. What are they made of?”

“Linen. Most people buy synthetics, but I think it’s worth having good-quality sheets.” He felt pleased to have met someone else who noticed and cared about fabric. Most people, even very nice people like Alain, tended to tease him for being fussy – although Alain had mostly stopped after By told him a few stories about growing up with a father who insisted on buying the cheapest version of _everything_.

“Where does _that_ come from?”

“From a plant.”

“You’re having me on. A _plant that grows sheets?_ ”

“Not exactly. They make fiber from it, and then ... do _something_. I’m not sure exactly how.” (This was pretty much the limit of his agricultural knowledge, so he couldn’t really blame Rish for continuing to look skeptical.) “Don’t they grow or raise anything on Jackson’s Whole?”

“... Me?”

“Oh. Right.” _That_ aspect of things was just ... weird, and it was making him uncomfortable, so he decided not to dwell on it. It didn’t really matter, he thought, since she was clearly a _person_ like other people, and not ... clockwork.


	5. People Can't Be Surveillance Operatives If They Are Blue

Byerly dropped Rish off at Ivan’s around midday. Ivan had plans to take both of the girls out for his birthday that evening, an event to which By was conspicuously _not_ invited (granted, they were going to be dining in public with a senior ImpSec man, but _still_ ). Feeling at loose ends, he called Alain.

“So, how’s it been going?”

“It’s going well. _Really_ well.”

“Congratulations-and-good-luck. Oh, and I’ve got a list of non-subjects hired by Domestic Affairs like you were asking me for, plus some notes of my own. I put in a request for the vids, but they’ll have to go through the Komarr office, so it’ll be a while. I’m taking a personal day off work, d’you want to meet at the river park near the kids’ play area around two-thirty this afternoon?”

“All right,” said Byerly, a little puzzled by the choice of venue. “See you then.”

Before that, he had an appointment with McSorley in one of the buildings ImpSec used as inconspicuous rendezvous points for undercover operatives and their handlers. It was labeled “Imperial Tax Audit Office,” on the theory that almost any member of the general public might have business at a tax audit office, but nobody who didn’t have such business was likely to wander into one _voluntarily_. Inside, it looked like a typical government office, far less claustrophobic than HQ. The place actually had _windows_ , and the security arrangements were virtually invisible: no human guards on the outside, only an eye-level biometric scanner. There was a small clinic and dispensary, an accounting office run with an iron hand by one of Souzana’s deputies, and a number of generic rooms suitable for rendezvouses and meetings.

He made his way to McSorley’s usual appointment room. “I like your coat,” said a rather shy voice at his elbow.

“Thank you. I like it too.”

“Can I snuggle it?”

Byerly looked the child over. He was obviously old enough to be articulate, which meant he probably didn’t drool, and he wasn’t visibly snot-nosed. In fact, he appeared to be remarkably clean, as little boys went, and By was trying to stay on McSorley’s good side. “All right.”

The child threw his arms around By’s leg, and rubbed his cheek up against the coat. He’d sort of expected that he would be allowed to take it _off_ first, but – well, that worked. He tried to remember which order the McSorley children came in. This one was surely the youngest – yes, there were the two older brothers, horsing around the soda machine in the corridor. “You’re Leon, aren’t you? Do people call you Leon, or Lev?”

“They mostly call me ‘Pansy’,” whispered the boy into the folds of the coat.

 _Oh, my dear._ Byerly was seized with a wholly uncharacteristic desire to wrap the coat around the child and shelter him forever, except that would hardly help with the brothers, would it? He compromised by dropping to one knee so that he was a bit more on Leon’s level.

“I like your scarf, too. It’s soft.”

“It’s cashmere. You’ve got excellent taste.”

Unfortunately, the brothers were already on their way back with their soda bulbs. They hadn’t brought one for Leon.

“Hey, Leon,” said the middle brother – Karl, was it, or Friedrich? “Boys don’t like clothes.”

“And they don’t hug men. Boys are supposed to like _girls_ ,” said the eldest, with a hint of innuendo that suggested he’d already picked up certain cultural equations, misleading and inaccurate though they might be.

Byerly attempted to explain that boys could quite easily like girls _and_ clothes; or they could like boys and clothes; or they could like boys _and_ girls _and_ clothes all very much, which happened to be his own case; or they could like both boys and girls but not give two hoots about clothes, which was his cousin Dono’s. Karl and Friedrich didn’t appear to be buying any of it. _Leon_ looked as if he’d just been handed an extraordinary set of revelations.

McSorley made a throat-clearing noise from the doorway. “Vorrutyer.”

“Oh, er, good afternoon, McSorley. I didn’t see you there.” Byerly braced himself for a flood of McSorley-sarcasm to the effect that his handler could raise his _own_ children, thank-you-very-much, _without_ infecting them with degenerate high-Vor ideas.

“I, uh, appreciate – well, thank you. My wife and I. Trying to do our best. Never so easy to find the right _words_. You know?”

The various problems By had dealt with in his life had only rarely included an inability to find the right words, but he nodded in a way that he hoped conveyed sympathy. Actually, finding the right words wasn’t usually a problem for _McSorley_ , either. _Why_ were little boys with excellent taste in scarves so alarming that they suddenly rendered the man incapable of speaking in complete sentences?

They weren’t, of course. It was how the world _reacted_ to them that was alarming, and to give McSorley credit, he seemed to recognize that.

“I’ve met that cousin you mentioned, by the way,” said McSorley as they stepped into the office. “Very sound politics, for a Count. I was impressed with him.”

Byerly tried not to choke. “Uh, thanks. I’m sure he’ll appreciate that.” (When McSorley described someone as having _sound politics_ , it usually meant they were about to start a revolution. Byerly had never been quite sure how he reconciled his political views with his continued employment in the service of the Imperium, but as McSorley _himself_ didn’t seem to be inclined to start a _violent_ revolution, their superiors at ImpSec generally ignored him. Come to think of it, assigning the man to a job where he regularly got to nail high-Vor criminals _and_ order By around had been a stroke of genius on somebody’s part. The ImpSec machine always seemed to accommodate a perfect fit for the most awkwardly shaped cogs.)

“Anything new on these Jacksonian girls?”

 _Yes, if Rish is typical of Jacksonian girls in general, they could conquer our planet without weapons._ “Not really. No contacts other than Captain Vorpatril and his usual associates, no reason to think they have any goals other than their stated one of seeking asylum on Escobar. And they seem, as far as I can tell, to be very sure House Cordonah has been obliterated.” (Lady Alys had been right: the grief was genuine, and it ran deep, for Rish as much as Tej.)

“No chance of their trying to raise a galactic army and take it back?”

“An _army?_ No, they haven’t the means. I wouldn’t rule out the possibility of one of them being out for _revenge_ , but it would have to be the stiletto-in-the-back variety. Nothing that need concern us here.” (“One of them,” of course, meant Rish, because there was no question which of the two had the focus and the _ruthlessness_ , but By didn’t see any need to get _specific_.)

Karl popped his head into the office. “Da, Friedrich clogged one of the toilets trying to flush Leon’s hat.”

McSorley sighed. “Right, I’ll tell the janitor. _After_ I’m done with this meeting. Why was he trying to flush – Never mind, I don’t _want_ to know. Don’t flush anything else. _Especially_ not clothes, or your brother, or your brother’s clothes.”

Karl sniggered. “Does that mean I shouldn’t flush _poop?_ ”

McSorley clutched his forehead, as if to keep it from exploding, and Byerly decided that he did _not_ have any regrets about his permanently-childless state after all. “You can flush poop. And toilet paper. In _normal amounts_. Nothing else.”

“I have to point out,” said By after Karl had disappeared, “a _roll_ of toilet paper is a perfectly normal amount, for some purposes. You might want to get more specific.”

“You are _not helping_ , Vorrutyer.”

“What are they doing here, anyway? Is this Take Your Hellspawn To Work Day or something?”

“Their school is closed today. Someone called in a bomb threat. And the idiots running the school think it’s just kids playing around, and as far as I can tell the idiot _municipal guards_ think it’s just kids playing around, although they’ve been _stonewalling_ me every time I try to call and get some _intelligence_. Those people are _so_ territorial, and they’re somehow under the impression that it’s _not an ImpSec matter_. That’s an exact quote, by the way.”

“I suppose there’s no chance it’s just kids playing around?” Byerly asked, mainly because it was hard to resist needling McSorley.

“If someone called in a bomb threat to the _Crown Prince’s_ school, would anybody consider it _not an ImpSec matter_ or _just kids playing around?_ ”

“I don’t think the Crown Prince goes to school. Isn’t he _three?_ ”

“Well, they’d take it seriously if it were _any_ of these Counts’ and Ministers’ children. What makes _my_ children any less important than theirs?”

There were a few things By could have said to this if he had been in the mood to be truly irritating – for example, that the _motive_ would likely be a bit different if someone were to call in a bomb threat to a school full of Counts’ and Ministers’ children, or that the rest of _ImpSec_ apparently considered it _not an ImpSec matter_ if McSorley was having a hard time wringing information from the municipal guards. He decided not to say any of them.

“So, other things I’ve learned about Rish. The enhanced senses are ... powerful. As in, she can tell who people have, um, had physical contact with. For several days back. She also seems to have been used in House Cordonah’s intelligence operations. The Baronne had all of the Jewels listening in on party conversations and reporting back. Well-trained memory, quick wits. I also get the impression that she might be willing to ... put her talents at the service of the Imperium, if need be. What do you think?”

“People can’t be surveillance operatives if they are _blue_ ,” said McSorley.

“So prejudiced, McSorley! I bet you can’t point to a _single_ regulation against surveillance operatives being blue.”

“There are _never_ regulations against any of your bright ideas, Vorrutyer, because you’re the only person who would ever think they were reasonable in the _first_ place.”

“By the way, how are those two call girls from Komarr working out? Have they started yet at the women’s training camp?”

McSorley nodded. “I see your point. You _are_ rather good at picking irregulars _when_ you have the authority to hire them.”

“More than ‘rather good,’ I think. Have I _ever_ made a wrong call?”

“Not that I can remember,” McSorley admitted. “But the fact remains that this woman is _not_ a Barrayaran subject, and her loyalties –”

“Are with the dead, as far as I can tell.” He had a sudden, chilling memory of how he’d tried to block the glass doors to Ivan’s balcony so that the girls couldn’t throw themselves off it. What would it be like to value survival so _lightly?_

“And with Baron and Baronne Cordonah’s surviving children, according to your own reports.”

“Yes. Fair point. But their interests aren’t opposed to ours, and in the meantime I think she could be very useful.”

“The answer’s no,” said McSorley. In By’s experience, that sort of remark only signaled the end of the _first_ round of a battle. And next time, he’d be armed with Alain’s research.

* * *

Afterward, he met Alain at the park. Sophie and Celyn Anderson, aged eight and six, were playing on the float-swings; it took Byerly a moment to realize that this was unusual for midafternoon on a school day.

“I didn’t think any of our usual meeting places would be exactly appropriate for the kids,” said Alain as he handed By a stack of flimsies covered in handwritten notes. Only the slightest twitch of his mouth betrayed a keen consciousness that this was the understatement of the year. “I had to bring them with me since Mira’s at work and their school’s closed today because somebody called in a bomb threat.” Alain, unlike McSorley, sounded perfectly composed about the business.

“I heard. Isn’t anybody on it?”

“The headmistress, I guess.”

“Isn’t that a little above the headmistress’s pay grade?”

“Well, of course the bomb squad _searched_ the place, but they didn’t actually _find_ anything. And, from what I understand, internal indicators point to a kid wanting a day off from school.” Alain seemed to have had better luck at getting information out of the school authorities than McSorley, who had no doubt been more aggressive in his approach.

“Wait, but...” McSorley’s children almost certainly didn’t go to the same school as Alain’s daughters. McSorley, despite his spiky relationship with the entire Vor-class, made a point of ensuring that his sons got the same education as _theirs_. Which usually meant an all-male service-academy prep school, and _definitely_ meant the sort of school Alain, kind-generous-low-pay-grade-glorified-librarian Alain, couldn’t possibly afford.

“What?”

“McSorley’s kids have a day off for the same reason, too. How _many_ bomb threats are we talking about? Against how many schools?”

Alain whistled softly. “ _That_ changes things.”

“Where do your girls go to school?”

 _Not_ at the municipal school, it turned out; Byerly mentally revised his estimate of Alain’s pay grade upward.

“Oh,” said Alain, when By asked, “McSorley talked me into it. He can be sort of ... what’s the word, like people who convert to those weird galactic religions?”

“Evangelical?”

“Yeah, that’s it. He even pulled a few strings with the headmistress and got them a partial scholarship.”

“Hmm-mm. That would explain why this park isn’t overrun with kids, which is telling me people _aren’t_ calling in bomb threats to the regular municipal schools.”

“I could talk to some of my neighbors and confirm that,” said Alain.

“I’ve got a few people I’d like to talk to myself.”

Their eyes met. “My place this evening?”

“See you then.”

* * *

After spending the rest of the afternoon in not-so-casual conversation with a number of acquaintances who had school-age children, Byerly turned up at the Andersons’ house in time to share in their roast chicken and dinner-table conversation, which was largely given over to Sophie’s theories about _which_ of her classmates would be most likely to call in a bomb threat, and why.

“They could use your daughter over in Analysis, Alain,” said By, once they were safely behind the closed door of Alain’s study. “She isn’t fully briefed, but she’s got a way with logic and a good grasp of personalities.”

“They don’t use civilians in Analysis,” said Alain shortly, “which means they don’t use women.”

“Either one of those things could change by the time she’s grown.”

Alain made some noncommittal-but-slightly-uncomfortable noises, and By remembered that Alain had actually _applied_ to the Imperial Service Academy, and hadn’t gotten in. He decided not to pursue the topic.

Alain poured out a couple of measures of Scotch, which was his one luxury. “Cheers. Tell me what you’ve found.”

“Two more schools that have received bomb threats. Countess Cordelia Vorkosigan Secondary School, very progressive, co-educational, gives away a lot of scholarship money. The other one’s a girls’ secondary school, a bit more traditional, the same one my cousin’s wife Olivia went to. Did you find any more?”

“One. The regular municipal schools don’t seem to be affected at all, but I found another military-prep sort of academy for boys, just like the one McSorley’s sons are at.”

“Would that one happen to be mixed prole and Vor, by any chance? Because most of them aren’t.” Service Academy prep schools were one of the last bastions of Vor exclusivity, but in recent years, a number of new establishments had opened up to serve the sons of the ambitious middle classes, and some of the older ones had bowed to the inevitable. Finishing schools that admitted only Vor-caste daughters were rarer, but a few of them still hung on.

Alain looked surprised at the question. “Yes, as it happens. Are your two secondary schools like that?”

“ _Yes_. And I’ve talked with people whose children are in all-Vor schools, and _they_ haven’t been threatened. There’s a _class_ angle here. A very specific one. And wonder of wonders, it’s one McSorley is actually going to _like_.”

“Mm-mm. Wouldn’t want to jump to conclusions. I’ve been playing around on the comconsole and I’ve made a map of all the schools in the city. Let’s code the ones we know for _sure_ about one way or the other and see if there are any other patterns worth spotting.”

That was Alain: cautious, methodical, always ready to apply the brakes to By’s intuitions but never inclined to dismiss them out of hand. And, miraculously, willing to spend his evenings on a bit of extracurricular investigation, despite the fact that he had an actual _life_.

After another forty-five minutes of mapping, research, and discussion, Alain was satisfied that the pattern was real, and that there weren’t any _other_ obvious common factors among the five schools.

“Didn’t I tell you so? And McSorley sounded like he _wants_ ImpSec on this. Let’s talk to him first thing tomorrow. But I think I need to talk to my-cousin-the-Count first.”

His investigations that afternoon had placed him on the receiving end of several heated, though rather opaque, tirades to the effect that if parents had been paying good money for their child to attend a particular type of school, it was outright _fraud_ for the government to step in and change the school’s fundamental character. None of the parents had been terribly specific about what they meant by “fundamental character” – there had generally been some hand-waving about tradition or academic rigor – but he was beginning to have a strong hunch. And most of those conversations had concluded with remarks that suggested By ought to be Doing Something About His Cousin.

* * *

Byerly called Dono on his private channel, reserved for family and close friends; even so, the Count was slow to pick up. “By, is this important? I’m trying to read up on custody law at the moment.”

“It’s very important. Tell me all about this ... school thing that people keep trying to lobby me about.”

“You’re calling me on the evening of a District Court day to ask about the _schools bill?_ Look it up on the _network_ , By.”

“I need a personal perspective.”

“All right. I’m going to hand you over to Olivia, she’ll explain it.”

Dono’s wife Olivia was more forthcoming. “It’s been law in Vorrutyer’s District for _four years_ , and the sky hasn’t fallen and nobody even complains any more. All schools have to admit children of all backgrounds – as long as the parents have the ability to pay, but private schools also have to set ten percent of their slots aside for scholarship students.”

“Wait, but people have been telling me that this law needs to be _stopped_ because parents should have the right to choose what kind of school they’re going to send their children to...”

“Well, obviously, that doesn’t apply to _prole_ parents. What those people mean is that they should have the right to send their children to all-Vor schools, where they won’t be contaminated by contact with people like, for example, me.”

“So, it’s like when people say they’re for traditional family values, and what they really mean is that old men should have the right to tyrannize over their wives and children?”

“Yes. _Exactly_ like that.”

“I hate politics.”

“I used to think _I_ hated politics, but it’s sort of _addictive_. Come over next week after we’re back in the city, you can help us design leaflets and mailers.”

“What time? Are afternoons good?”

“Perfect, but – Um, By? Do you have a _bastard child_ out there or something? I mean, this doesn’t strike me as the sort of thing that would normally interest you.”

“No, I’m just – well, it’s sort of complicated. But yes, I am interested. Very much.”

* * *

Ivan had offered Tej and Rish access to his old comconsole. It was hooked up to a holocube, and it had a three-dimensional animation program – a bit crude, but acceptable. Rish, who found herself unable to sleep, decided to play around with it.

She found herself creating a dance for six figures, though she didn’t give them colors or faces or any distinguishing characteristics at all. She discovered that she couldn’t bear to do that. It drew on bits and pieces of the Barrayaran dances they’d seen the other night, but it was her own. Something new.

She started when someone moved behind her in the darkness. Oh, it was only Tej, going to the kitchen to get a glass of water.

“What are you doing?” she whispered when she came back.

“Nothing. Just playing around a little with choreography.”

Tej watched the figures for a moment. The fact that there were six of them would not have escaped her, but she didn’t comment on it. “What sort of music do you have in your head?”

Rish recalled a few fragments of lyrics from one of the songs she’d heard at By’s the other night, plugged them into a search box, and pulled up some audio. “It’s a Barrayaran folk song. About a Count Somebody-or-other, who went on fighting for his emperor not knowing that the emperor was dead. It’s one of those futile gestures people here think is heroic, but I liked the tune.”

“It’s pretty. Sad, though.”

“Most of their music is sad.” _Elegy_ and _lament_ seemed to be the natural Barrayaran modes, and they felt about right for what she wanted to do with this dance.

“They don’t seem to be very sad people, most of the time, considering everything that’s happened to them. I mean – they are in a way, but they go on with their lives. Eventually.”

“ _Eventually_ is one of those words that leaves out a lot, sometimes.” Rish wondered if she would forget, _eventually_. She hoped not. She hadn’t meant to let her little evensister see any of her own grief – except, suddenly, Tej seemed to be bearing up much better than _she_ was, and she didn’t even know what she was doing on this strange planet if Tej didn’t _need_ her any more.

“Do you like them? The people here, I mean?”

“They’ve been ... decent enough. But they're very _different_.” Byerly had seemed to be the most Jacksonian person they’d met so far, but now that she’d slept with him, Rish was getting the definite impression that he ... wasn’t _very_ Jacksonian at all.

“It’s a _good_ sort of difference, though. I think I like it.”

“Don’t get too attached, little evensister. It’s only temporary.”

“Well,” said Tej, “when you think about it, everything is temporary, isn’t it?” And she leaned over Rish’s chair for another minute or two, watching the figures inside the holocube, gave Rish’s shoulder a squeeze, and whispered, “Good night.”

Yes, Rish thought, everything was temporary; but some things – like dance, like sisterhood, like _life_ – were more temporary than they _ought_ to be. And some, perhaps, were more permanent than they ought to be. What, she wondered, was she supposed to do with her life now that she was _singular?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In neither McSorley's case nor Alain's should the sex of the children be taken as a character note for the father. This bit was easier to set up if one of them had all boys and the other all girls, but what I've decided is that all five children were conceived the old-fashioned way, and both couples were willing to take whatever they got. Alain and Mira wouldn't have been able to afford reproductive technology at the time when their daughters were born. McSorley and his wife -- who is, if possible, even more of a firebrand than he is -- probably _could_ , but they're conscious that replicator-births have become virtually obligatory among the Barrayaran (and Jacksonian) elites, whereas body-births are still fairly common on egalitarian Beta. They concluded that it was a class marker cleverly disguised as progressivism, a way of signaling that We Can Afford Not To Have Babies The Old Backwards Way Like The Peasants, and decided they wanted nothing to do with it. Whether there is any truth whatsoever in their conclusions is left as an exercise for the reader.


	6. Not a Natural

McSorley looked up from his desk as Byerly and Alain approached him. “Oh, it’s the pair of you. Vorrutyer, if it’s the same thing you were asking me yesterday, the answer is still _no_.”

“It’s about these school bomb threats,” said Alain. “Myself and By were talking last night –”

“Alain and I think we’ve spotted a _pattern_ –”

“One at a _time_ , please. And, Vorrutyer, I don’t recall telling you to investigate any school bomb threats.”

“We weren’t _investigating_ , we were just _talking_ about them. His daughters weren’t in school, so I asked why ...”

By the time they had finished explaining, McSorley was grinning broadly. “I _told_ the guards it jolly well ought to be an ImpSec matter,” he said. “I think I can make a _case_ for it now.”

This seemed, to Byerly, to be a propitious moment to make his second pitch for hiring Rish as an irregular. Alain had not only come up with a list of non-Barrayaran subjects who had been employed in Domestic Affairs, but detailed information about when, why, and what sorts of arguments had been used to justify their employment. One of Alain’s many sterling qualities was the way he always came up with the information you needed _before_ you thought to ask for it.

McSorley, however, remained obdurate. “None of these people were _surveillance subjects_ when they were hired. Given the woman’s particular circumstances, it would be completely out of order.”

“Just as a matter of interest, did you get permission to bring your children to work yesterday?”

“Well, no, but they’re short, so the security scanner doesn’t pick them up – and they know not to talk about anything they see or hear – Vorrutyer, are you trying to _blackmail_ me?”

“Of course not!” said Byerly, although he _would_ have tried blackmailing McSorley in a heartbeat if he’d thought it would _work_. “I was just pointing out that _everyone_ bends regs now and again.”

“Regulations that were made, in this case, _decades_ ago, when this agency was run by privileged Vor twits with dozens of servants and wives who didn’t _work_. What are ordinary people expected to _do_ with their children?” 

McSorley glared vaguely in the direction of his Vorish subordinate, as if suspecting him of having (perhaps stashed away in an attic somewhere?) _a wife who didn’t work_. Byerly caught Alain’s eyes, which were bright with barely-repressed laughter.

None of the arguments By could muster, however, seemed to sway McSorley, and he eventually had to concede defeat.

“See you,” said Alain cheerfully, as he went back to the Records Office. “Give my regards to your dozens of servants.”

“Don’t forget my wife-who-doesn’t-work.”

“Her, too.”

* * *

The better part of a week passed before Byerly heard anything more about the school bomb threats. McSorley’s request to pursue the case was, no doubt, slowly working its way up the chain of command, and then the municipal guards, who invariably resented interference from ImpSec, would have to be strong-armed into turning over their records.

In the meantime, he took Rish to two more parties, and to a gallery opening one evening. He went to a lot of events like that, pretending he had come for the free wine but secretly more interested in the art. He tried to talk her into accepting a couple of his favorite pieces as gifts, as that would give him an excuse to buy them with the ImpSec credit chit.

“I’m living on Ivan’s _couch_ at the moment. Where would I put a _sculpture?_ ”

“Well,” he offered, “you could always leave it at my place, and I could take care of it for you.”

“Nice try, By.”

“Or you could take it back to Ivan’s with you. Redecorate his living room for him, and see how long it takes him to notice.”

She laughed, and he knew he was winning. “About a week?”

“At _least_ two.”

“Want to bet?”

“Sure. What are we betting?”

“You win, you spend the night with me. _I_ win, I spend the night with you.”

She sealed the bargain with a peck on the lips, and he turned to conclude the purchase with the gallery owner – only to find himself looking, instead, across the gallery at Philippe Vorpennick.

There was a world of pain and fury in the look that he was giving By. Philippe, apparently, hadn’t gotten the memo that _he_ was supposed to want the divorce as much as Sylvie did. Byerly suddenly doubted that Philippe had ever had a lover of his own, after all.

* * *

They ended the evening at the Seven Deadly Sins Club, an underground (in both senses of the word) cabaret on the fringes of the old Caravanserai. This part of the city was not yet fully gentrified, and part of the appeal of the Seven was that you might end up rubbing elbows with _anybody_. “We might even spot some actual celebrities, if we’re lucky.”

“ _Are_ there any Barrayaran celebrities? Ones people from off-planet have actually heard of?”

Byerly had to admit that if you left out the Emperor and Aral Vorkosigan – neither of whom would be remotely likely to turn up at the Seven – there probably weren’t.

Rish seemed more amused than scandalized by the floor show, which was, by galactic standards, probably only mildly risqué; she appeared to be taking mental notes on the technical elements of the dances a good deal of the time, happily oblivious to the dancers’ costuming or lack thereof. Most of the political satire in the songs and comedy interludes was lost on her, although it was not lost on Byerly. That sort of thing was tolerated under Emperor Gregor, as long as it stayed low-key, and he had to admit he was in sympathy with some of the opinions expressed – though not too much to remember who laughed at the more dangerous bits, just in case.

Around midnight they did spot a celebrity of sorts, a singer named Rudy Fairchild, who had been very popular with teenaged girls about five years before. Unfortunately, he was remarkable more for his looks than his vocal range, and those were already starting to fade; By diagnosed too much drinking, too much juba, and a touch of desperation, which never did much for anyone’s appearance. The young man accompanying him, on the other hand, was beautiful enough for two.

“Oliver Vorkyl,” explained By. “He came from some little dustbowl place out in the country, about a year or so ago, and latched onto Fairchild not long after that. Not a mark to his name, but that face is worth something, isn’t it? And I should say he knows its value very well.”

Rudy, he noted absently, wasn’t getting the satirical bits at _all_ ; Oliver occasionally signaled his appreciation with a raised eyebrow or a twitch of the lips, although he did nothing so crude as _laughing_. Byerly thought that it was like looking back through the years at his own twenty-year-old self.

After a while, Rish remarked on something else. “He isn’t looking at the boy dancers at all. Only the girls.”

“Oliver? Yes, I’d noticed that myself. Well, there’s no law against being gay-for-gain, as long as you’re not doing anything quite so blatant as soliciting on street corners. And I’d imagine being Rudy’s boyfriend offers ... a number of opportunities for gain.”

“Did you do that, yourself? Relationships with rich older people, I mean?”

“Often and often. It wasn’t much of a change, doing it in ... other contexts.” ImpSec had been _delighted_ to find that their new agent was willing to sleep with anyone, regardless of gender, and regardless of whether he actually liked them or not. And by the time he’d started wanting to be a little choosier about the second part, it had been a bit late to change the entire trajectory of his career.

She watched him watching Oliver for a moment. “But you don’t like him at all. You don’t like Katya Vorzohn either.”

“It’s because I _have_ played that game,” he said, “that I know you have to be a bit rotten at the core to play it.”

Rish gave him one of those uncomfortably shrewd looks that she excelled at. “Is that what you think of yourself?”

“I’m not _twenty_ any more,” he said, although this wasn’t really an answer to her question. Besides, if you did accept it as an answer, the next logical step was accepting that Katya and Oliver also wouldn’t stay twenty forever, and might grow into better people. He brushed the thought aside. Contempt for one’s fellow man was a necessary _survival skill_ in his line of work.

* * *

He was discovering some other side effects of the gengineering: Rish had a faster metabolism than an ordinary person, and she tended to be ravenous when she woke up. Since she was much livelier in the mornings than he was, he initiated her into the mysteries of the coffee maker and the toaster and taught her to fend for herself. He was lounging on the couch eating some of her slightly-burnt first efforts while she did her morning stretches, which were always fun to watch.

“You’re amazingly _bendy_ when you do that. Could we go back to bed and, you know ... try out some of those positions?”

“I need to be at Ivan’s in an hour. Tej and I are supposed to start driving lessons.”

“ _Plenty_ of time.”

She looked him over, amused but also _tempted_. How extraordinary, that a woman who looked like that seemed to find him _desirable_. “I think we might.”

She had perched herself on the edge of the couch and started unbuttoning his pajamas when she asked, suddenly, “How do you stay so fit?”

“Ah. So you’ve noticed that poses a slight logistical problem. By walking everywhere, mostly. Taking the stairs instead of the lift-tube, that sort of thing. People don’t notice you’re getting a fair amount of exercise if you do it in ways that are invisible.”

She ran her fingers over his chest and stomach. “People have never caught on that you don’t have the _body_ of an alcoholic dilettante?”

“Not as far as I know. Keep in mind that most people aren’t athletes, so they don’t have your level of expertise. And, well, people generally see what they think they’re going to see. They fill in the gaps with the most expected thing, instead of noticing what’s actually _there_.”

She shook her head at the general stupidity of unmodified people. “The _first_ thing I noticed about you was that there was a total mismatch between your mannerisms and your body. It’s not as obvious when you’re relaxed, like you are now.”

“Well,” he said, pulling her down on top of him, “I’m glad _somebody_ finally noticed, and I’m glad it was you.”

He felt like she _understood_ him – which brought him up short, because he knew perfectly well how to make people feel that _he_ understood them, and he wondered, suddenly, if she’d been trying out some of those same tactics on him.

* * *

 _I’m not going to be able to do this_ , thought Rish in despair. _I cannot._

“You’re doing fine,” said the driving instructor. It was a lie; she was creeping along at a pace only slightly faster than walking, causing the driver of the groundcar behind them to honk his horn at her. The noise went straight to her bones; she felt _blasted_.

“Pull over and let him pass.”

She could do that; she understood the steering and the start / stop mechanism perfectly well. It was such a relief to _stop_.

“Now, check your side-view mirror to make sure you’re not pulling out in anyone’s way, and go on as soon as it’s clear.”

The mirrors were a problem. She found it impossible to _translate_ the objects she saw reflected – backward and wrong-sized as they were – into a mental map of the real world. She glanced over her shoulder, confirmed that the road was clear, and pulled out.

“Good. Now, try speeding up a bit.”

She tried, but the world seemed to be _rushing_ much too fast, and it gave her vertigo. They approached a corner, and the cars on the cross street were rushing too, at speeds that struck Rish as suicidal. They were coming from all directions, and she just wanted to close her eyes and cover her head.

“Right turn signal.” She tried. “No, that’s the left turn signal.”

She was too rattled to tell right from left any more, and someone behind her had started honking again. Why were people so _impatient?_ She turned onto the cross street, with agonizing slowness.

Another turn; another moment of sheer terror. And a third; and a fourth.

“You did it!” said the driving instructor, in the sort of voice normally reserved for toddlers who were being toilet-trained. “You drove all the way around the block! Now, pull over and let Lady Vorpatril have another turn.”

Rish got out of the car, hands shaking.

Tej was bouncing up and down, happily. “See, I told you you could do it! It’s fun, isn’t it?”

Rish managed a weak smile. “I think you’d better have the rest of the lesson to yourself. I’m ... not a natural. In any sense of the phrase.”

Tej drove off, a little jerkily, but at roughly the same speed as the other cars on the road. She seemed to have taken to driving as if she’d been born and raised here – but while Tej had the same slightly enhanced senses as other people of Cetagandan ancestry, she lacked the extra level of refinement that made city traffic an agony of sensory overload.

 _Oh, Baronne, your gifts are as impractical as they are glorious_ , thought Rish, and then felt guilty for thinking it.

* * *

“Give us back that credit chit,” ordered McSorley. “I hope you have _lots_ of fun explaining to Souzana why you spent 900 marks at an _art gallery_.”

“It was a gift. Surely, if I’m supposed to be taking Rish out and gaining her trust, I can buy her a gift every now and again?”

“At your own expense. _Not_ at ImpSec’s. It was bad enough that you felt the need to buy her an entire new _wardrobe_.”

“I bought her a coat, some gloves, and a couple of scarves. She was _cold_.”

“They have coats, gloves, and scarves at the _thrift shop_ ,” said McSorley, “and you needn’t pretend you don’t know your way there, because I know you do.”

 _Ouch_. The worst of it was, By wasn’t sure McSorley _meant_ that to sting as badly as it did. From his handler’s pragmatic, middle-class perspective, it was probably a perfectly reasonable _suggestion_.

He explained, in his most irritatingly precious and aristocratic voice, that thrift-shopping was a _fine art_ that could not possibly be practiced by someone who had only just arrived on a new planet. You had to have an excellent memory for other people’s clothing, so that you didn’t end up wearing something to a party where its former _owner_ might turn up, and you also had to have a sense of which outmoded fashions were about to become retro-chic, and which were going to pass mercifully into oblivion.

McSorley was obviously going nuts trying to work out whether By was just baiting him, or whether he was afflicted with some sort of high-Vor mental disorder that rendered him incapable of distinguishing between necessities and luxuries. To do McSorley credit, he always pulled his punches if he thought you legitimately had something the _matter_ with you. “Just ... _hand over the damn credit chit, Vorrutyer_ ,” he said at last, through gritted teeth, “and next time you take it into your head to be generous to somebody, remember there are kids in the hill country who could do with some _shoes_.”

Byerly obeyed.

* * *

Cooking, it turned out, was something Rish could _do_. After the driving debacle, she had been afraid she might not have any survival skills worth anything on Barrayar; but Ma Kosti praised her ability to make fine distinctions among flavors and scents, and she found the lessons pleasurable. It would have been grubber work back home, but she discovered that she liked _creating_ things, regardless of the medium.

Textures were fun, too: the silky feel of flour on her hands, and the buttery dough taking shape between her fingers, growing softer and stickier as her hands warmed it.

The first batch of fingerprint cookies turned out a shade too brown, and not quite as regular in shape as they ought to be. Tej said they looked fine, but Ma Kosti knew better, and Rish felt relieved to be in the company of someone who agreed that things ought to be _just right_ and not simply _good enough_. Ma Kosti interested and puzzled her; she had such a broad grubber accent that Rish often had to ask her to repeat herself, but she also seemed to have an instinctive feel for beauty and refinement, a quality that the Baronne had always claimed could only arise from genetic superiority. Perhaps, Rish theorized, she was a descendant of some Cetagandan by-blow, although she’d learned by now that it would be a mortal insult to speculate about this out loud.

The second batch was perfect, raspberry and apricot jam glistening jewel-bright in the hollows made by her fingers. Ivan and Tej scarfed down samples from both batches without seeming to notice the difference. Byerly, she thought, would have noticed. She thought she’d wait and surprise him once she got _really good_.

* * *

Byerly hadn’t wanted to go to Lex Vorlynn’s party in the first place. He could think of _lots_ of things he’d rather be doing than socializing with people he disliked, especially now that he’d met someone he did like. Besides, he didn’t actually have a _reason_ to be there, except that it looked funny if you were constantly hanging out with people for a few months and then dropping them, particularly if their friends or relatives always coincidentally happened to have been arrested shortly _before_ you dropped them. In the case of a high-profile scandal like the Vormercier case, you could make a very public show of distancing yourself, but the rest of the time, you had to deal with ... loose ends. And Vorlynn had been _insistent_ about wanting him there.

He brought Rish along, even though she hadn’t been invited, so that he would have someone intelligent to talk to. He’d warned her that this was likely to be a rougher and more disreputable crowd than anything she’d encountered so far, and she was game. Ivan, he thought, would probably have his _head_ if he ever found out By had taken her to Vorlynn’s, but Ivan wasn’t Rish’s keeper.

At Vorlynn’s, he acquired his usual watered-down gin and tonic and nodded a greeting to Katya Vorzohn, who had turned up _with_ Evon Margraves and _without_ Vitaly. Not his business, but he’d have advised a bit more discretion.

Another woman was approaching them. Oh, great. Sylvie Vorpennick. _Always_ awkward running into one’s exes at these things, even if you’d parted on tolerably good terms. Even more awkward if you were starting to suspect the ex hadn’t been telling you the full truth about the state of her marriage.

“Hi, Sylvie.”

“Hi, Byerly.” She didn’t seem in the least uncomfortable, angry, or jealous, although it must be obvious by now that he and Rish were a couple. _Quite_ a contrast to Philippe’s manner. “How’s everything?”

“Fine. I, ah, saw Philippe the other night. He didn’t seem happy.”

“He’ll come around. It was the best thing for him, he just hasn’t realized it yet.” She smiled enigmatically – Byerly went a bit weak-kneed at the smile, he always had – and drifted off into the crowd, the beaded fringe of her dress swaying.

Rish poked him in the side. “You’re still attracted to her.”

“Yes, but I’m not going to _act_ on it. Particularly not now.”

“She’s blonde,” said Rish, rather irrelevantly. “Most people here aren’t.”

“It isn’t her natural color.” _Vor_ women weren’t blondes. They weren’t even _dyed_ blondes, usually, because it was such a _prole_ look. But Sylvie and her radical-chic intellectual set were precisely the sort of people who didn’t care about that, and Byerly had to admit he had a particular weakness for the look.

Wait. What _was_ Sylvie doing here, anyway? She didn’t run with Lex Vorlynn’s crowd. The first and last time he’d seen her with any of these people was when she was ... _his_ guest. He’d brought her along partly because she’d been curious about the scene, and partly because she _wanted_ to be seen behaving as badly as possible in public. She’d smoked a bit of kavaweed, gotten giggly, and commented afterward that it was all less interesting than she’d imagined. That would have been just about six months ago ...

It occurred to him that six months ago, seeing _Katya and Evon_ together would have been unremarkable. She hadn’t been married to Vitaly _then_. In fact, he was pretty sure he _had_ seen them both in just this company.

Byerly closed his eyes for a moment, thinking back to _six months ago_. He opened them again and looked around the room. He had the definite impression that Lex had _reconstructed_ his guest list – which was very, _very_ not good.

Behind him, he heard Lex talking to Niko Vorprzhevalsky, the champion pegasus-racer. “I’ve got some stuff you’ll want to try. Mick Vormeitner’s latest discovery. Supposed to have some very interesting ... effects.”

 _Shit_. If he’d been in any doubt that he was in serious trouble, this settled matters.

He ducked into the upstairs lavatory, poured his almost-untouched drink regretfully down the drain, and refilled it with tap water; he'd need his wits about him to get out of this. Then he swallowed his entire supply of anti-intoxicants, although he wasn’t sure they would do much good.

Vorlynn’s house had a balcony; Rudy Fairchild and a few of his hangers-on were already out there working themselves into a state of drug-induced oblivion, so he supposed it would be safe enough to step out for a moment. He declined a hit off their juba joint, leaned over the railing for a moment in imitation of someone who’d already had too much to drink, and took careful note of what he saw.

Back in Vorlynn’s ballroom, he drew Rish aside and said, quietly, “You’re armed, right? Can you make it back to Ivan’s by yourself?”

“ _Can_ I? Yes.” But he’d come to recognize her stubborn look, and it was all too plain that she didn’t _intend_ to. “What’s going on?”

“I’m not sure Vorlynn intends to let me leave. In fact, I think it’s safe to say he _doesn’t_. I’d rather you got out before things start getting ugly.”

She grabbed him by the arm and dragged him over to a spot near the band. “Let’s dance.”

“What?” (He’d never danced with Rish before; it certainly wasn’t an invitation _he_ would have dreamed of issuing, any more than he would have invited Niko Vorprzhevalsky out for a casual horseback ride. Luckily, she seemed to be confining herself to the sort of dance step he was actually capable of following, even in his current state of distraction.)

“I’m asking you for the second time,” she said in his ear, “what the _hell_ is going on?”

“Vorlynn’s new party drug is fast-penta.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And ... I hate to leave things on this particular cliffhanger, but I'll be traveling for the next couple of weeks and I'm not sure whether I'll get a chance to update until I get back. Haven't abandoned the story, I promise!


	7. Disadvantages of Fast-Penta as a Party Drug

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry about the hiatus, everyone! I think I can promise a double update next weekend, since the next couple of chapters are both pretty short.
> 
> This is probably a good place to remind people of the [master list of OCs for this fic](http://a-t-rain.livejournal.com/285194.html), since they're starting to proliferate.
> 
> Before I knew anything else about where the plot of this story was going, I knew I wanted to write _this_ scene, because there's nothing more fun than playing around in a universe where a cultural obsession with Shakespeare is actually _canon_. As such, it's probably more than a bit self-indulgent, but so it goes...

Rish was too well-trained to react visibly, but Byerly felt her stiffen in his arms. “Are you sure?”

“Positive. Lex says he got this new drug from Mick Vormeitner, who was just asking me last week where he could buy some fast-penta. And his guest list – present company excepted – is _exactly_ the same as it was at the party Lex’s brother gave just before Midsummer, straight down to the musicians and the bartenders. Well, the brother and a few of his associates aren’t here because they’re in prison for sedition. I don’t suppose I need to tell you how they got there.”

“What are you going to do?”

“I don’t know, but I doubt very much that I shall be given much choice in the matter. _You_ , on the other hand, can walk away. You weren’t anywhere near this planet at Midsummer, so he won’t be interested in you.”

The band had finished their song, necessitating a brief halt to the conversation. _They_ probably wouldn’t turn down free drugs at the end of the evening, but he wondered how Vorlynn intended to force the stuff onto the bartenders. He found that he didn’t want to think about that.

Rish did not show even the slightest sign of walking away, although that might be because he was clinging to her with a death grip. He willed himself to _let her go_ and look _normal_.

“Do you have the allergy?” she whispered as soon as the music started again.

“No. My employers offered, I said no, they didn’t press the issue. I didn’t ever want to be in the position of being charged with something and not being _able_ to clear myself, and honestly, it seemed low-risk. Undercover operatives don’t usually know each others’ identities, so I wasn’t risking anybody else – and, well, there wasn’t _supposed_ to be any fast-penta in private hands on Barrayar. Until now, apparently.”

“Hm-mm.” It wasn’t clear whether that was an “I’m thinking” sort of noise, or the “you’re an idiot” kind.

“I _should_ have had it done, in hindsight. A spot of death would be just the thing right about now. Odds are they’d put it down to the Vorrutyer heart, and they’d never even _know_.”

Now _she_ was the one clinging to him much too hard. Good God, what had he done, involving her in his life?

“Does Vorlynn actually know _how_ to conduct a fast-penta interrogation?” she asked. “Because I’ve _done_ it, and it’s a lot trickier than you might think.”

“I know. I don’t think he does, or he’d know you _don’t_ try to question more than one person at once. It’s my best hope. That, and I doubt his supply of the drug is very pure.”

“The _impure_ stuff on the black market can have some _nasty_ side effects. Or, um, so I’ve heard.”

“Bring them on, whatever they are. I understand there are some ways to beat it if you’re not fully under the influence. We had to study some cases at work ... there was one that involved a man who recited _Shakespeare_ , and apparently managed to keep his concentration fixed closely enough on it that it crowded out whatever else he was going to confess to.”

“Shakespeare,” said Rish, as if she were trying to place the name. “The Baron used to read – no, that was Machiavelli. Never mind.”

“Same general era. Old Earth playwright, Renaissance, very popular on Barrayar.”

“Can _you_ recite Shakespeare?”

“All Barrayarans can. All of the ones who are Vor-class, I mean. Plenty of proles, too. Evon Margraves certainly could, he studied Old Earth cultures at the university ... I think I see where you’re going with this. I _like_ it.”

Rish could refuse the drug without raising suspicion; she wouldn’t be on Vorlynn’s list of potential suspects, and word had already gotten around that she didn't generally indulge in recreational drugs. And everything By had been taught about fast-penta interrogation suggested that multiple interrogators were enough to confound an investigation _even if_ they were honestly working toward the same goal.

“Do you?” said Rish. “I’m not sure it’s not completely crazy, myself. Are you sure we’re not better off slipping out the back door and making a break for it?”

“Come out on the balcony,” he said.

* * *

“I count four men at least,” said By softly, in her ear. “One stationed in the bushes on either side of the drive, one at the side of the house, one at the top of the lane in case anybody gets past the others.”

“Six,” whispered Rish. “Look there, in the shadows. And another one covering them from the roof, you can just see the glint of his stunner.”

“I’d bet good money that isn’t a stunner, it’s something more primitive and more lethal. And there are likely more of them around the other side of the house. We can’t take that many, and we can’t hit the one on the rooftop at _all_.”

“No. I guess you’re right, you’ll have to submit and hope for the best. I’ve got your back.”

“Good.” His hand found hers: _I trust you_.

“If it helps, I don’t think the stuff Vorlynn has will be effective for long. If it’s the same supply we had, he’ll be able to get in about twenty minutes of questioning before it starts to wear off.”

“Um ... just out of curiosity, when you say the black-market stuff has nasty side effects, just _how_ nasty do you mean?”

“I’m not sure,” Rish admitted. “Tej and I didn’t exactly wait around to find out whether anyone died or not.”

“Rish – _you_ haven’t sold any fast-penta to anyone on Barrayar, have you? Or even Komarr?”

“Of _course_ not! We would have _kept_ it for ourselves if we had any left!”

“Right. Silly of me.” He was getting that bemused look he had whenever she said something he regarded as impossibly _Jacksonian_. She would miss that look, she realized, if anything happened to him.

He kissed her very quickly on the lips – it was a good-luck-charm sort of kiss – and steered her back indoors, toward the dance floor, where they hammered out the details of their plan.

“One last thing,” said Rish. “What Vorlynn’s doing is illegal as hell on Barrayar, right?”

“Yes.”

“Once we get away, do I call the municipal guards to raid the place?”

“Tempting. _Very_ tempting. But I think not. They’ll know it’s us if we’re the only ones who have left. Also, I wouldn’t be surprised if Vorlynn’s got a guardsman on the take who can trace the call.”

“So, then.” Rish surveyed the room. “Choose your victim.”

“What?”

“There must be _someone_ here you want to set up, and people on fast-penta are _suggestible_. I’ll get them to leave with us, and then I’ll stun them and call the guards on their wristcom.”

“ _No_. Rish, if we are going to do this thing, _I need to know that I can trust you_. Give me your word that – I mean, let’s say part of the _deal_ is that you won’t do that.” 

They were still holding hands, and his touch, if possible, was expressing an even stronger _no_ , more of an _I am appalled that you have even suggested such a thing_. Huh, maybe Byerly was just as invested in this crazy patriotism-and-honor business as Ivan was. He was _certainly_ more conventional than he liked to pretend.

“Deal?” he asked.

“Deal,” she said. The alternative was tantamount to letting him commit suicide, and _that_ really wasn’t an option.

* * *

Several of the guests had already been dosed; most of them were rolling around on the floor, slack-muscled, giggly, and incoherent. Rish watched, trying to conceal her fear, as Byerly unbuttoned his cuff, rolled up his sleeve, and offered his arm to Vorlynn. “This looks very amusing indeed, Lex. I can hardly wait.” A sardonic, slightly knowing, smile played about his lips. _He wants Vorlynn to know he knows perfectly well what’s in that hypospray_ , she thought, _and that he did this voluntarily_.

The eyelashes flickered up for a moment as Vorlynn pressed the hypospray to his arm, and in his eyes she read a quiet plea: _Don’t fail me_. And then he fell back, lying on the floor with a goofy grin. “Ooh, this is _nice_ , I wonder how they synthesize it? I’ve done a bit of experimental recreational chemistry myself, you know, not so much lately, but when I was fifteen I broke into the science lab at school, one of the windows hadn’t shut all the way, you really should check your windows every night even if you think you live in a safe neighborhood...”

Vorlynn was, as yet, ignoring most of the babbling from his guests, as he was still busy administering the drug. “You want some?” he asked Rish.

She shook her head. “Nah. Not my thing. It’s _much_ more fun watching _other_ people get high and act like idiots.”

To her relief, Vorlynn appeared to accept this without suspicion. He gave her a conspiratorial smile that was, in her opinion, much too _familiar_. “I think you’re my kind of girl. Maybe we could, you know, figure out some _other_ ways of having fun while they’re all sleeping it off.”

“Maybe,” said Rish, reflecting on the fact that she had a vibra-knife in her boot, and that applying it to Vorlynn’s balls might be a very good way of having fun if he made the mistake of getting grabby.

The moment of distraction had given Byerly a chance to wander into dangerous territory. “I really _hate_ this kind of party, you know, I got bored with this whole scene ten years ago and I wouldn’t give most of the people here the time of day if I didn’t _have_ to. That doesn’t mean you, Sylvie, or Rish of course, or Evon – you could do a lot better than Katya, by the way, Evon – and I’m not saying that because I have designs on you myself, because you’re honestly not my _type_ –”

A safer topic; not time yet to intervene. They’d agreed that she wouldn’t start trying to confound Vorlynn’s efforts until it became necessary.

Evon, meanwhile, was attempting to decline the drug; Lex Vorlynn had turned insistent, with a smile that reminded Rish of the sharks she’d seen in nature vids. “What have we here, a puritan? Ah, yes, not unusual for someone from _your_ background, of course, but I can’t imagine it appeals much to _Katya_. Now, I wonder ...”

 _He thinks he’s just found his informant_ , Rish realized. Good. _She_ had no particular compunctions about letting Vorlynn go after an innocent man.

“Come _on_ , Ev,” said Katya, “it looks like _fun_ , and you’re turning into such a boring stick these days.”

Evon gulped, and offered up his arm. Or was forced to offer it. Lex, she saw, was twisting it in a way that had to be causing the boy some pain.

“– My type is actually _female_ more often than not, ironic isn’t it, but that’s what the psych tests said, technically bisexual but kind of skewed toward one end of the scale, and it turned out to be the opposite one from what everyone assumes –”

It occurred to Rish that, as a date drug, fast-penta offered some interesting possibilities.

“– Those tests are _creepy_ , in case you’re wondering, they show you all of this really disgusting pornography, at least I think it’s intended to be pornography, but a lot of it has violence and torture and all sorts of things nobody normal would get off on, I understand why they had to make sure about me because there’s a family history, but next time you hear that story about Simon Illyan and his memory chip, you should remember it isn’t as much fun as it sounds –”

Oh _shit_ , she’d let him babble on much too long already. Vorlynn was trying, rather ineffectually, to interrogate Evon Margraves, but he’d turned his head at the mention of Illyan. She should have redirected earlier; why _else_ would By have been taking psychological tests, for God’s sake?

“How interesting to see so many of your local customs,” she said, very quickly and loudly. “Is this a typical party on Barrayar?”

“No,” said Vorlynn. “It’s ... unusual.” Most of the other guests concurred, none of them very coherently.

She did her best to play the innocent off-worlder. “But then, your whole culture is unusual, isn’t it? I’m finding it fascinating. Is it true that you all learn to recite Shakespeare from memory?”

“Yes,” said various people all at once.

“I’d love to hear some,” said Rish.

“ _I know you all_ ,” said Byerly promptly, “ _and will awhile unfold the unyoked humor of your idleness..._ ”

“ _Have we eaten on the insane root that takes the reason prisoner?_ ” said one of the other guests.

“ _A horse! a horse! My kingdom for a horse!_ ” exclaimed Vorprzhevalsky.

“ _To be or not to be_ ,” said Rudy Fairchild, and then stopped, obviously outclassed even in this not-overly-intellectual company. “This is a question?” he offered hopefully after a moment or two. “Uh, outrages of fortune, be all my sins remembered, whatever.”

Oliver Vorkyl nudged him. “ _Thus do I ever make my fool my purse_ ,” he announced to the assembled company.

As the babble of doped-up Barrayarans reciting Shakespeare rose all about him, Lex Vorlynn started to grasp that his interrogation had spun wildly out of his control. His face, Rish thought, was a thing of beauty. “Has anyone here ... you know ... got anything they’d like to get off their chest? Something you’ve never told anybody?”

“But this is _charming_ ,” said Rish, instinctively exaggerating her Jacksonian accent. “More Shakespeare, please!”

“ _A woman’s face, with nature’s own hand painted_ –” tried Byerly.

“ _O the difference of man and man! To thee a woman’s services are due; my foot usurps my head – a fool usurps my bed – body –_ something.” Katya leaned heavily on Evon Margraves’s shoulder and giggled.

“ _Am I a lord_ ,” said Evon, “ _and have I such a lady? Or do I dream, or have I dreamed till now? I do not sleep, I see, I hear, I speak ..._ ”

“ _For ‘tis a meritorious fair design to chase injustice with revengeful arms_ ,” murmured Sylvie Vorpennick, who seemed only half-awake.

“ _My horse is my mistress_ ,” said Vorprzhevalsky.

“ _Ha, ha, what a fool honesty is, and trust, his sworn brother, a very simple gentleman_ ,” said Oliver Vorkyl.

“... _Mine be thy love, and thy love’s use their treasure_ ,” Byerly concluded.

“Maybe something you feel guilty or ashamed about?” said Vorlynn desperately. Really, the man had _no_ idea how to conduct a fast-penta interrogation; Rish almost felt sorry for him.

The question seemed to trigger some sort of association for Sylvie Vorpennick. “ _Come you, my lord, to see my open shame? Now thou dost penance too. Look how they gaze, see how the giddy multitude do point and nod their heads, and throw their eyes on thee. Ah, Gloucester, hide thee from their hateful looks, and in thy closet pent up, rue my shame and ban thine enemies – both mine and thine..._ ”

“... _Upon my life_ ,” Evon was saying at the same time, “ _I am a lord indeed, and not a tinker, or Christopher Sly_.”

Oliver Vorkyl said, “ _To have an open ear, a quick eye, and a nimble hand is necessary for a cut-purse; a good nose is requisite also, to smell out work for the other senses. I see this is the time that the unjust man doth thrive._ ”

“ _The ruthless flint doth cut my tender feet_ ,” Sylvie went on, “ _and when I start the envious people laugh..._ ”

“It’s been quite some time since we were all together,” tried Lex Vorlynn, “and you might have noticed that there have been some _changes_ since then –”

“‘ _Tis not ten years gone_ ,” offered up another of the guests, “ _since Richard and Northumberland, great friends, did feast together, and in two years after were they at wars_ –”

“ _Fuck_ Richard and Northumberland. What I want to know is, _who betrayed my brother?_ ”

“But I don’t _care_ about your brother,” said Rish quickly, because Vorlynn had finally gotten around to asking a direct question and Byerly seemed on the brink of _answering_ it. “I want to hear some more _Shakespeare_.”

Byerly looked from Rish to Lex and back again, as if utterly flummoxed by these two conflicting imperatives, and finally shrugged and said, “ _I follow him to serve my turn upon him; we cannot all be masters, nor all masters cannot be truly followed_ ...”

Sylvie Vorpennick was still babbling in the background. “ _But be thou mild, and blush not at my shame, nor stir at nothing till the axe of death hang over thee, as sure it shortly will_...”

“ _O, happy horse!_ ” Vorprzhevalsky interrupted.

“ _Others there are, who trimmed in forms and visages of duty, keep yet their hearts attending on themselves; and throwing but shows of service on their lords, do well thrive by them and when they have lined their coats, do themselves homage_...”

“This is really sort of boring,” said Rudy Fairchild. “Would anybody like to hear me sing a song instead?”

“Sure,” said Rish, because this seemed as good a way as any to confound Vorlynn’s interrogation.

“... _But I will wear my heart upon my sleeve for daws to peck at; I am not what I am_.”

“ _Oh, my darling_ ,” Rudy sang, “ _don’t deceive me, I gave you all I could..._ ”

The rest of the guests joined in, mostly off-key. “ _When I told you, please believe me, I knew you never would_...”

“This is _beautiful_ ,” said Rish, encouragingly. “Is it one of your traditional folk songs?”

Lex Vorlynn grabbed her by the arm and hissed in her ear. “You. Crazy-alien-mutie-woman. I don’t know why the hell you’re so obsessed with Shakespeare, but you need to leave my house _right now_.”

“I am _not_ a mutant,” said Rish, with what she judged to be the right mixture of imperiousness and pettiness. “I am a _work of art_. And _nothing_ would give me more pleasure than leaving this place which you so quaintly term a House, but I can’t leave without By, he’s my _ride_.”

“ _Fine_. Take him, too.”

She grabbed By’s arm and more or less dragged him out the door, before Vorlynn could notice that he was protesting, quite cheerfully, “But I wouldn’t be in any condition to drive even if I had a _car_ , which I don’t.”

Her first reaction, as the cold night air hit her face, was giddy, triumphant relief. Her second was to slip a hand under her coat and cover Vorlynn’s nearest goon with her stunner, subtly enough not to tip off his colleagues. It wouldn’t do much good, but in any case nobody made a move; Vorlynn must have some way of signaling them to let people leave.

“ _Like as the waves make towards the pebbled shore_ ,” Byerly said conversationally, as they reached the end of the lane and turned out onto the main road, “ _so do our minutes hasten to their end_...”

Rish froze for a moment, having just apprehended several truths at once, none of them connected to Vorlynn or the disaster they had just averted. She was discovering something much bigger and more complicated, and it made her unexpectedly sad.

She was also, suddenly, very _afraid_ , because By was starting to show all of the symptoms she and Tej had observed in the two bounty hunters they’d interrogated on Pol Station. She could detect the spiking temperature and racing heart even through his winter coat, and after stumbling along for another half-block, he abruptly sat down on the curb and said, “Jus’ need to res’ a bit.” He was slurring his words in a way that was clearly _not_ acting, this time.

“You’re in no shape to walk home. Give me your wristcom, I’m going to call a groundcab.”

“No.” It seemed to cost him a great deal of effort and concentration to form words. It was _unnerving_ , seeing By without words. “No cabs. Too ... ‘spicuous. Drivers always wanna _talk_. An’ they remem’er.”

“What do you want to do, then? Sitting out here all night is not an option.”

“Tube? If ‘s running.”

“Like we wouldn’t be conspicuous on the bubble-tube?”

“‘S _pu’lic transit_ ... af’er midnight. Trus’ me.”

She thought. She doubted that he was thinking very clearly at the moment, but the station was visible not far down the street, and she wasn’t sure it would be possible to drag him into a cab by main force. “All right.” She flung his right arm over her shoulder, positioned her own left hand under his armpit, and lifted him into a more-or-less standing position. He wasn’t able to give her much help on the standing-up part – he seemed to have gone _floppy_ – but at least he managed to stagger along beside her after that.

He was actually right; nobody paid them the slightest heed on the bubble-tube, despite the fact that By was leaning forward with his forehead resting on the back of the seat in front of them. Everyone else in their car seemed to be in a similar state, or else homeless and fast asleep, or else simply insane. Nobody even stared at _her_ ; maybe the ones who were still capable of thought assumed they were coming from a galactic-themed costume party.

“Don’t puke,” she said, because he seemed to be in some danger of it.

“Tryin’ not.”

He didn’t, at least not on the tube. Once they were back at his apartment, he said with suddenly clear enunciation and almost heartbreaking politeness, “Excuse me, I need to go and throw up for a while, you can go back to Ivan’s if you like.”

He tried his best to be _neat_ about it, which was also heartbreaking. She fetched a glass of water and a damp washcloth, and after about ten minutes he stopped telling her to go back to Ivan’s. After twenty minutes he stopped insisting that he was going to be perfectly fine, and she began to be very worried. He wouldn’t let her call for medical help, but he didn’t object when she started ransacking the medicine cabinet. “Haven’t you got any synergine?”

“No,” he said without looking up from the toilet. “Not available over the counter.”

“Some of these other things look like they aren’t, either,” she said, inspecting a couple of unlabeled pill bottles.

“Yes, but – _recreational_.”

She was pretty sure at least one of them _wasn’t_ , but this wasn’t the right time to talk about it. She did manage to find some painkillers, and a bottle of a cloudy liquid that was apparently some sort of stomach remedy; they would both be useful if he managed to keep them down, which he probably couldn’t at the moment.

After another twenty minutes he started expressing the hope, in colorful terms, that the rest of Vorlynn’s guests were at _least_ as miserable as he was, and she decided he probably _was_ going to be all right, at least in the immediate, short term. Once he had stopped retching, she made him swallow everything from the medicine cabinet that looked vaguely useful, as well as one of her own motion sickness tablets, and helped him to bed.

She lay awake for a long time, afterward, thinking about the word _wild-caught_. It sounded almost poetic. If she’d been a romantic _type_ , which she wasn’t, there would have been a certain ... allure to it.

She hadn’t really thought before about what it _meant_ , although there were some obvious, physical differences. He habitually skipped desserts (and then stole bites from hers), grumbling about a tendency to put on weight; her metabolic enhancements ensured that she never needed to think about that sort of thing. He needed more sleep than she did, but that had made for a few pleasant, lazy mornings, watching drama vids with the subtitles on while he dozed. They’d had a couple of bedroom wrestling matches, both of which he’d lost decisively, but with grace and humor. She hadn’t been used to thinking of him as _fragile_ , until now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For anyone who would like a helpful cheat sheet for the Shakespeare quotes and their origins, Origamist has posted a fantastic one [here](http://a-t-rain.livejournal.com/286936.html#t3926744). Thanks, Origamist!


	8. Wild-Caught

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As promised, two new chapters this week, since I missed a week and they're both short-ish.
> 
> The 2015 Bujold ficathon is [here](https://archiveofourown.org/collections/Bujold_Ficathon_2015/profile) and could use some more sign-ups, prompts, and fills! Note that you don't have to commit to writing anything if you sigh up and leave a prompt, and you can leave as many prompts as you like -- it's all very free-form, and the more prompts, the merrier.

Byerly drifted into a vague, fuzzy-headed wakefulness. He seemed to be alive, and in his own bed, which were both good signs. He found that he couldn’t remember last night very clearly, although he didn’t think forgetfulness had been one of the side effects after his prior encounter with fast-penta. Either Vorlynn’s supply was badly adulterated, or he was just getting too _old_ to do this sort of thing with impunity. Probably both. He felt like he’d been beaten up and then left to dry out in the sun.

Rish was at his side with a glass of water and some painkillers; he swallowed them gratefully, and went back to sleep.

A couple of hours later, he woke up again; this time she brought tea with honey, and more painkillers. He was tempted to eat them by the handful, until she started reading the scary parts of the label out loud, the ones about kidney damage. The tea, on the other hand, was _immensely_ comforting, and soothing to his throat and stomach, which were both feeling very rough this morning.

“I didn’t think you’d mind my following prole etiquette, for once.”

“Of course not. You _always_ follow prole etiquette when your host isn’t feeling well.” He’d made that up, but it sounded sensible.

He dozed off again, and by the time he woke up, Rish had actually assembled breakfast, or lunch, or something: toast with marmalade, a small tub of yogurt, a couple of slices of melon. After trying a cautious bite of the toast, which she hadn’t burnt at all this time, he decided that food made him feel better instead of worse. He double-checked the label on the yogurt to make sure nobody had been sneaking bug butter into it (you couldn’t be too careful, these days), and then finished it all.

Once he had eaten, he felt almost human again, so he got up and had a shower, selected a bathrobe that made him look interestingly-pale but not absolutely ghastly, and then went back to bed. After all, being sick was _much_ more fun after one had started to feel better, and he saw no reason to waste the opportunity. He had a report to write, and it would have to be a detailed one, so he took his portable comconsole to bed with him, but he worked on it half-heartedly, between interludes of tea and snuggling. Being _fussed over_ was a novel experience, and he found it delightful.

It took him a couple of hours to notice that anything was the matter. There was _always_ a sadness about Rish; he could scatter it for a few moments by making her laugh, the way throwing a stone into a lake scattered the reflection on its surface, but he’d never been able to banish it. But today it seemed sharper and more intense. She was awfully _quiet_ , and she hadn’t turned on those trashy serial drama vids she usually found inexplicably mesmerizing. Whatever it was, she clearly wasn’t angry with him; she seemed to be treating him with a wholly unaccustomed tenderness.

He thought back to his training-camp experience with fast-penta, and wondered if he had said something to make her regard him as ... damaged goods. Unfortunately, he still couldn’t _remember_ last night very clearly.

“Rish, my dear? Did I say anything under fast-penta that – that we need to talk about?”

“Not under fast-penta. No.”

Before that, then? He glanced over his half-drafted report, and tried to remember everything he’d said in her presence last night ...

_Oh._

It occurred to him that while _oh-you-poor-sick-thing_ could be _charming_ for the space of a day or so, _oh-you-poor-invalid_ was something else entirely, and would have to be nipped in the bud. He put his report aside, got up, and began to dress. “Let’s go for a walk. I don’t feel like staying in bed any more.”

* * *

He brought her to the river park, where the trees were past their peak, but still glorious in the rich light of a late-autumn afternoon. He took the path up Memorial Hill at a brisk pace, by way of proving he _could_ , and kissed Rish on the steps of the monument to the martyrs of the Cetagandan occupation. One or two old men on the paths below stopped and glared at them. Let them. _They_ wouldn’t have known any of the martyrs of the Cetagandan occupation, even if they pretended otherwise, and once upon a time those martyrs must have been alive and in love; they might well have _approved_.

Most of them had probably been very ordinary people, he thought, as petty and tiresome and selfish as the people he knew today, until death transformed them into something greater. He looked around at the splendor of the fading day and the dying year, and thought that maybe it was death that gave meaning and beauty to everything.

He thought about starting with this observation, but it seemed too abstract, and anyway, he certainly wasn’t _dying_.

To the extent that he’d imagined himself having this conversation before, it had always been with a Barrayaran woman (and whenever he _tried_ to imagine how it would go, he always came to the conclusion that it would be impossible for him to have the marriage-and/or-children sort of relationship with a Barrayaran woman). It had never occurred to him that there would be any _need_ to have the conversation with a man, or a galactic, or ... _certainly_ not a galactic who was planning to decamp for Escobar in a matter of weeks. But it appeared that he did need to have it right now, and he wasn’t even sure what the issues were or where the pitfalls lay.

“Rish,” he said at last, starting in the middle, “it’s truly not a big deal. Of all the reasons why I might be a poor insurance risk, this one doesn’t even _rate_. There are pills for it, which are quite effective, and I take them _religiously_.”

She didn’t ask what he was talking about. “I know. I’ve seen you take them. But I didn’t know what I was seeing, until last night.” She seemed, oddly and flatteringly, to be close to tears. “I can also _hear_ it, you know. Only I’d never _met_ anyone with a heart defect before, so I didn’t know what I was listening to, either.”

“Can you really? Good, you can tell me if anything ever sounds ... different. Maybe it’ll stop them from dragging me in for medical appointments every six months at work ... ImpSec’s really _very good_ at taking care of its own, you know. Galactic-standard medical facilities and all that. And I feel perfectly well, and there isn’t anything other people can do that I can’t. If you’re going to _have_ a ... major health issue of some sort, this is a pretty good one to have.” It occurred to him that he was babbling about what could be side-issues for all he knew, since she hadn’t actually _said_ what was troubling her. He resolved to stop talking.

“Will it get worse?”

“Nobody knows. It’s possible, even with the meds. But, I mean, growing people a new heart is perfectly routine these days – the only real concern is that the old one may, um, give out suddenly when you’re not ready to do anything about it. But I gather they’re getting pretty good at _predicting_ that sort of thing, as long as you’re not an idiot about it like my cousin Pierre.” ( _Not_ doing so well at the not-babbling thing. And bringing up Pierre had almost certainly been a mistake.)

“I don’t know about your cousin Pierre. I don’t think you’ve ever mentioned him before.”

“He’s dead. But he also didn’t see a doctor for more than a _decade_.” ( _Because my other cousin got hold of his medical records and used them to blackmail him. As long as we’re discussing unfortunate traits that run in the family, have I mentioned the sociopathy thing?_ )

“Do most wild-caughts have a – defect of some sort?”

“No. Definitely not _here_. There’s a – significant stigma. So, you know, if you’d rather be with someone who ... _doesn’t_ , you can go into any nightclub in the city and have your pick.” ( _I’ll escort you, even, because it’s my job. And then say bitter and biting things about you, because I am so not a saint_.)

“But – he’d still be _wild-caught_. How long is the _lifespan?_ ”

“Oh, pretty long these days. Eighty, ninety years? Sometimes a hundred or more.”

This clearly didn’t qualify, in Rish’s eyes, as _pretty long_. “So ... you’re almost halfway through.”

“It’s been a ride. I’m not sure I’d _want_ to do it more than once again.” A sudden thought occurred to him. “May I ask, how long is the lifespan for refugees from Jacksonian Great Houses who have bounty hunters after them?”

“ _That_ ,” said Rish, “depends on how good their survival instincts are, and mine happen to be _very_ good. And – well, that sort of death doesn’t come with aging and debility and the rest of it.”

“No.” There wasn’t, really, anything he could say to that, other than pointing out the obvious fact that he wasn’t likely to be much aged or debilitated before she left for _Escobar_. And if she was starting to think of their partnership as ... permanent, he found that _he_ didn’t want to be the one to declare it temporary.

And, while he wasn’t absolutely sure how to read her reaction, at least she hadn’t started making hex signs and telling him to get away from her. That was ... _more_ than good enough, he decided.

The shadows were getting longer, and the air chillier. They had been sitting for a minute or two, lost in separate thoughts, when they were interrupted by a chime from By’s wristcom. It was, of all people, Evon Margraves.

“Oh, hi. I got your com-code from Katya, and I wanted to, you know, check in.”

“Check in?”

“Make sure you were all right. That stuff Lex made us try out at the party – that was _vile_. I’ve been sick as a dog all day.”

“So have I. I don’t think it’s going to catch on as a recreational drug.”

“No. Well, take care. Just wanted to be sure nothing had happened to you.”

“Thanks, Evon. See you around.”

Huh, there seemed to be a _lot_ of people worrying about him today. Before he could collect his thoughts, he got _another_ call, this one from Ivan. “Is Rish with you?”

“Yeah, she’s right here.” It was high time, he thought, that he bought Rish a wristcom of her own, because this business of Ivan relaying messages through him was getting old. Too bad he didn’t have that credit chit any more.

“Can you tell her that I’ve bought a Great House set, and Tej and I were going to pick up some takeaway and have a game tonight? I mean,” Ivan added as an afterthought, “you’re welcome to come too. If hanging out at my place playing a game isn’t too _stodgy_ for you.”

 _Oh, Ivan, you have no idea how pleasant a quiet evening playing a game sounds right now_. “I accept. What time should we come over?”

“Maybe an hour from now?”

“See you then.”

* * *

They’d ordered Greek takeaway, normally one of Byerly’s favorites, but he still wasn’t much in the mood for anything heavier than soup and plain rice. Ivan apparently noticed that he was eating lightly and not drinking at all, because he handed By a mug of ginger tea, which was the standard Barrayaran folk remedy for all manner of stomach ailments, without saying a word. There were times when it was actually possible to believe Ivan was related to Lady Alys.

After dinner, they left the dishes in the sink and moved to the living room for a game of Great House. “All right,” Ivan explained, “so the premise of this game is, everybody is the Baron of a House. There are one hundred and twenty resource chits, distributed evenly among the individual player panels. So with four of us in the game, everybody gets thirty. Got that?”

“Yes, Ivan, I do know how to do arithmetic. What are resource chits?”

“I was just _getting_ to that part. They represent your House’s holdings – money, human capital, natural resources, technology – and you can play them whenever you like to take over more territory on the central console.”

“But you need different kinds of chits to take over different kinds of territory,” said Tej. “They’re color-coded to show what you need. Like, for example, this red zone is a cloning facility, so you need a medical personnel chit to take it over and make use of it, and the purple border means you’ll also need weapons – those are always purple.”

“What if I’ve got a weapons chit but no medical personnel?”

“Then you can _take_ it, but you won’t be able to _hold_ it after your next turn without making a Deal with another player. If you’ve got a chit you think _they_ need, you can give them a glimpse on their player panel, without letting any of the other players see. That’s making an offer. If they accept the Deal, they show you one of _their_ chits that they think is equally valuable to you. After that, either partner can play the resource chit they know the other one holds.”

“ _Unless_ someone you _thought_ you had a Deal with double-crosses you,” said Ivan, looking darkly at his wife.

“Yes,” said Tej sweetly, “but then you can double-cross them right back.”

“Your best bet,” said Rish, “is to cooperate with all the alliances you’re offered until somebody else cheats you, and then stick it to that person at the next possible opportunity. There are other strategies, but they don’t work as well in the long run.”

Byerly nodded. Captain Lenahan, one of his training instructors, had once taught his class a less-elaborate game that worked along similar lines. He’d gotten fairly good at it, working on instinct and people skills, but he’d been unable to articulate the general principle when Lenahan called on him during the debriefing session. And then Alain had pointed it out as if it were the most obvious thing in the world.

“If _you’re_ going to cheat anyone – which you will probably need to do if you want an outright win – make it late in the game and make it big. Or else make it something that wins you a new and better alliance. If you’ve got Deals going with _two_ other players and you can’t hold up your end of the bargain with both of them – pick the biggest dog in the fight. But be sure you _know_ who’s the biggest dog.”

“ _How_ do I know that if I haven’t seen all the chits they’re holding?”

“Observation.”

This was starting to sound a bit like poker. He was _good_ at poker.

Tej won the first game handily, with no very serious competition from anyone but Rish; but by the middle of the second game and the second bottle of wine, she was becoming decidedly tipsy, and Byerly had picked up enough of the strategy to become Rish’s main competitor. The games unfolded at a leisurely pace, with occasional pauses while the girls reminisced about growing up on Jackson’s Whole. It all sounded pleasant and surprisingly normal, except for the parts where Tej’s parents occasionally had people assassinated. He paid attention, and asked the occasional encouraging question. One of his duties was finding out as much as possible about Jacksonian internal politics.

Rish won the second game, but not by much. “Good game, wild-caught. You’re catching on.”

“No fair staying _sober_ ,” said Ivan grumpily. He had lost badly, both times. “You don’t get to do that next time we play.”

“I won’t,” By promised. “But I’m still going to beat you, you know. When’s the next time?”

“Tomorrow?” suggested Tej.

“Sounds good. I’ll be there.” Great House, he had discovered, was _surprisingly_ engrossing, and by God he was going to _win_ next time. He began to put his wraps on, as Ivan and Tej cleared up the game panels.

“Should I stay here tonight,” Rish asked, “or go with you?”

“You’re welcome to do either. Fair warning, though, I’m _tired_. And I’ve got to finish writing a report that I should have sent off _hours_ ago.”

“So you’d rather I stayed?”

“I didn’t say that. Not at all. Just, you know, it might be a long walk for a cuddle and a kiss goodnight.” ( _Please come. It will mean you’re a real girlfriend and not just a sex-buddy_.)

“I’ll go with you.”

“Good.”

As they were leaving Ivan’s apartment, Rish said, “Can we hold hands? Without your gloves on?”

“Sure,” he said, bemused by this unusual request.

* * *

Not the usual friendly pressure of the fingers, but something tighter and more elemental. Was it an _I love you?_ Rish wasn’t sure; but it was definitely an assertion that things were _different_ between them now. Except that By hadn’t acknowledged the difference verbally, so they both had to pretend it wasn’t there. Instead, he kept up a steady stream of light banter that was, most definitely, camouflage.

That suited her. She had no idea what she wanted to _do_ about ... whatever had changed. It was not that it was absolutely unwelcome. It was only that she felt as if she’d had her cup _full_ of grief and loss for one lifetime, and could not possibly bear any more. And besides, she needed to get Tej settled with Amiri on Escobar and then set out on a lonely search for those of her odd-sibs who might still be alive; there wasn’t any room in her plans for a very Barrayaran _complication_.

She wanted so badly to be able to talk to the Baronne just once more, to ask her the things she’d never thought to ask while her parents were living: _weren’t you afraid all the time, being with someone so imperfect, so very mortal?_ Except – there weren’t, after all, different _degrees_ of mortality, were there? Her parents’ fate was proof enough of _that_.

Once they got back to By’s apartment, he went dutifully back to work on his report, propped up against the pillows with the portable comconsole balanced on his legs; but it wasn’t long before his hands went still and the long-lashed eyes closed. He didn’t stir when she removed the comconsole and covered him with a blanket.

“Sleep well, wild-caught.”


	9. This Shakespeare Stuff

By’s wristcom chimed at an ungodly hour of the morning. He blinked at it, tempted to ignore it, but since it was McSorley calling on a secured channel, that was probably a very bad idea.

“Vorrutyer-dammit. _Where_ is your latest _report?_ ”

“It’s ... not quite finished yet. I’ve been working on it. I’ll get it in today.”

“What’s the holdup?”

“I wasn’t at _all_ well yesterday,” said Byerly, leaning back against the pillows and doing his best to look fragile. “And you’ve told me _yourself_ that I should take some time off and not try to work when I’m sick.”

“I meant if you’ve got anything that’s going to get _worse_ if you push yourself too hard. _Not_ that you should feel free to take a day off every time you’re nursing a hangover.”

“I did _not_ have a hangover. Not in the usual sense of the word.”

“... Seven hells, Vorrutyer! Are you telling me this story about fast-penta being used as a party drug is actually _true?_ ”

“It’s true. If you need a witness, I can corroborate.”

“ _Eight_ hells! Why wasn’t your report on my desk _yesterday?_ ”

Byerly thought over the events of _yesterday_ , and came to the conclusion that there was, unfortunately, _no possible way_ to spin them in which he hadn’t been badly negligent. He hadn’t _meant_ to neglect the report; he’d only meant to take an hour or two off to have a very important conversation with his girlfriend ... which was surely excusable, except somehow it had turned into dinner at Ivan’s and a three-hour game of Great House, and then he’d fallen asleep afterward instead of finishing the thing.

“It’s ... been a fairly complicated one to write,” he temporized. “I don’t, unfortunately, remember some of the ... critical moments very well, so I’m going to have to interview a witness.” ( _Who isn’t going to be hard to track down because she’s right here in my bed, but that’s why I’m always very careful about which way I tilt the vid plate._ )

“For God’s sake, Vorrutyer! It didn’t have to be a _detailed_ report! What I _needed_ to know yesterday was something along the lines of _Lex Vorlynn has obtained some fast-penta and has been using it as a party drug, and for some reason I was enough of an idiot to take some_ ... Two lines, max.”

“Well – what are you complaining about, then?” Byerly couldn’t resist asking. “You already seem to know all about it.”

“You haven’t told me yet how badly compromised your cover is.”

“I think ... possibly not compromised at all. Give me a few hours to interview that witness and to _write_ the thing, and I’ll tell you all about it.”

“This had better be the best damn report in the history of the _planet_ , Vorrutyer.”

“Oh, it _will_.” Granted, he and McSorley sometimes had different ideas about what counted as _good_ report-writing, but he had every intention of doing due diligence on this one.

* * *

“So,” he said to Rish, who had also been woken by the call, “I need you to tell me _all_ about what happened the other night. I can only remember bits and pieces.” He was pretty sure they’d all been singing some dreadful pop hit of Rudy’s at one point, but he had absolutely no idea why.

“I did exactly what we planned, and it went fine. Just when Lex Vorlynn was trying to start interrogating people, I asked if it was true that all Barrayarans could recite Shakespeare, and they all said yes, and I said I’d like to hear some, and then everyone started ... reciting more or less all at once, and every time Lex tried to slip in a few questions I asked for more Shakespeare, and finally he got so fed up he threw us out.”

“What kinds of things did _I_ recite, can you remember?”

“Something about anal sex and bondage and some sort of dominance play. Which I didn’t really think you were into, but, you know, we could try...”

“ _What?_ In _Shakespeare?_ ”

“Well, something about somebody wearing out his master’s ass, anyway.”

He’d played Iago once, at school, so it took only a moment to place the phrase. “ _You shall mark many a duteous and knee-crooking knave, that doting on his own obsequious bondage, wears out his time, much like his master’s ass_ – Was _that_ it?”

“Yes! And then there was something about ‘I am not what I am’.”

“Oh ... _fuck_. Fuckfuckfuck. I gave them that whole _speech?_ ”

“Yes. What’s the matter?” He didn’t answer for a moment, and Rish looked him over, wide-eyed. “It ... isn’t about sex, isn’t it?”

“No. It _really_ isn’t anything to do with sex. And considering my particular circumstances, it was ... pretty much a full confession. One which I can only _hope_ Vorlynn was too stupid to figure out. Dear God, what _else_ did I say?”

“Nothing you shouldn’t. You just said you knew everyone there.”

“ _I know you all, and will awhile uphold the unyoked humor of your idleness_ – Like that?”

“Exactly like that.”

“Shit. That ... isn’t good, but I guess it’s not as bad as the other one. What else?”

“Something about ‘mine be thy love’.”

“‘And thy love’s use their treasure’?”

“Yeah. That.”

“ _That_ one’s all right. That one really _is_ about sex.” It was also, of course, for Alain. What did it say about his life, he wondered, that having accidentally told his girlfriend that he’d been in love with his best friend for years was the _least_ of his worries?

“I’m not sure I get this Shakespeare stuff. Whenever it _sounds_ like it’s about sex, it isn’t, and whenever it doesn’t ... it is?”

“Yeah, pretty much.” A sudden, possibly-brilliant thought occurred to him. “So, um ... what did everyone _else_ say?”

“Niko Vorprzhevalsky babbled a lot about horses...”

“Niko _always_ babbles a lot about horses, even when he’s stone cold sober. It’s his one subject.”

“... And Rudy Fairchild said ‘to be or not to be.’ I’ve heard that one before, it’s famous, isn’t it?”

“Yes, I expect that’s the beginning and end of Rudy Fairchild’s Shakespeare repertoire.”

“And then Oliver said something about making his fool his purse.”

_That_ caught Byerly’s interest. “Ooh. More _Othello_. What are the odds of _two_ Iagos at the same party? Did he say anything else?”

“Something about honesty being a fool and trusting his sworn brother, and how he needed a good nose.”

“A good _nose?_ ”

“To smell out work for the other senses. I liked _that_ one, it made sense to me. And he said it was time for the unjust man to thrive.”

None of this was ringing any bells, but maybe he’d be able to find it if he looked it up. “What else?”

“That ex-girlfriend of yours who owns the antique shop – Sylvie – said something about the flint cutting her feet, and people laughing at her, and the axe of death.”

“Axe of death?” That sounded, if possible, even _less_ familiar; but he’d expect Sylvie to know her obscure Shakespeare. The evening was coming back to him, in flashes. She’d been telling someone to shut himself in his closet and hide from his enemies, someone called Gloucester ... He didn’t think it was the same Gloucester as in _King Lear_. Maybe one of the history plays?

“Somebody I didn’t know said something about whether he’d eaten the insane root ...”

“ _Macbeth_. Probably a good question to ask if someone’s just forced fast-penta onto you.”

“... And Evon Margraves kept talking about how he was a lord, and his name wasn’t Christopher somebody-or-other.”

_That_ was a puzzle. Byerly couldn’t think of any Christophers in Shakespeare, off the top of his head. Obviously, there were a lot of lords-who-weren’t-named-Christopher, but he couldn’t recall any of them feeling the need to _say_ his name wasn’t Christopher. Maybe it was something from the Barrayaran Apocrypha, which still got taught in prole schools sometimes? No, Evon Margraves had a degree in Old Earth cultures, and he’d spent a year in London; he’d be the last person to make that mistake.

“I think we’re going to need to visit Lady Alys. She might recognize some of the ones I don’t.” He hoped he wouldn’t run into Simon Illyan there, because he suspected Illyan would be _scathing_ when he heard the story; but it was better than facing McSorley without a _really full_ report. “One more question before we go. I give you my word that I won’t put you on record as my source for this, and it wouldn’t get you in trouble in any case since you didn’t have any left when you arrived on Komarr ... but where did you and Tej get your supply of fast-penta?”

“Wouldn’t you like to know, wild-caught? What are you going to trade me for it?”

“... The best oral sex of your life?”

“You’ve been giving that away for free. No trade.”

“Well, like Mick Vormeitner says, you always get people hooked by offering them a _sample_...”

“Trade question. Serious one. When you watch me, what are you watching _for?_ What does your government suspect Tej and me of _doing?_ ”

“I don’t think _they_ know. Questions were raised about whether you might be trying to raise a galactic army and take your territory back from House Prestene. I said I thought that was unlikely, since you don’t have the resources –”

“Right. We don’t. But would your government care if we did?”

“Honestly? I think they might be _pleased_ if you did, because I don’t gather they’re too happy about the current situation, either. From their perspective, you’re not the _enemy_ exactly, just ... unknown. And I’m working on trying to get you a better Deal. It’s behind the scenes, and it might take a while, but ... if you’re willing to play ball with our government, I think they’ll eventually come round to the point where they trust you. Because – whatever it is that we have here – I want it to be _voluntary_.”

“Oh, it’s voluntary, wild-caught. You wouldn’t be able to get _near_ me if it weren’t. Unless you’re trying to pretend it isn’t voluntary for _you_.”

“Well – equal. Freely chosen. No-strings-attached. I _want_ that for us.”

Rish looked him over and gave him a small nod of trust. “All right, here’s the answer to your question. Fell Station. Smallish man, pale, red-haired, freckles, almost certainly wild-caught. He said _his_ supplier was House Cassini, and it’s likely to be true. They’re a House Minor that specializes in the chemicals trade, and their stuff is ... usually about this quality. The Baron and Baronne would have used better suppliers, but we had to take what we could get.”

“Thank you. So I can give them the beginning and end of the supply chain. They’ll like that. I don’t know what happens in the middle, but obviously it’s got to come through Komarr, most likely by the same route _you_ took. Galactic Affairs can follow up.”

* * *

Once she had finished saying “You did _what?_ ” and “You made _Rish_ do what?” and “Your wristcom’s got a panic button, why didn’t you _use_ it?” and “Well, you’re not going to be of any use to anybody if you get yourself _killed_ ,” Lady Alys was at last persuaded that the exercise might have yielded some useful intelligence, and went to fetch a reader with a searchable edition of Shakespeare.

Oliver Vorkyl, it turned out, had been quoting Autolycus in _The Winter’s Tale_. A petty thief. “He’d get invited into a lot of houses, wouldn’t he, tagging along with Rudy? Have you ever heard of things going missing?”

“I _have_ , actually,” said Lady Alys. “Lady Vorlakial lost a brooch at a party where he was a guest. Rather a valuable one. And Martya never did find a couple of the gifts after her wedding reception, although she’s always assumed Enrique misplaced them, because of course that’s the sort of thing Enrique _would_ do.”

And Rudy, Byerly recalled, had been hired to _sing_ at the wedding reception; no doubt he’d brought Oliver with him. “It isn’t really an ImpSec matter, but if I put it in my report they’ll pass it along to the guards.”

Rish, meanwhile, was remembering a few more details. “Katya Vorzohn said something about ‘the difference between man and man.’ She was more or less hanging on Evon Margraves’s neck at the time.”

“King Lear,” said Lady Alys promptly. “Goneril to Edmund. Not much question about what _that_ means.”

“No,” said Byerly, looking up from the reader. “Do you think there’s any way to – quiet the rumors about the two of them?”

“It appears to me that Katya just confessed that the rumors were _true_.”

“No, she confessed that she’d _like_ them to be true. There’s a difference. Katya wants to be having an affair with Evon, but I don’t believe Evon’s having an affair with _her_.”

“Why not?”

“Because I’ve just found the passage he was quoting. It’s from _The Taming of the Shrew_. Evon wasn’t casting himself as Edmund – or as Aaron, or any other man committing adultery with a woman above his station. Evon cast himself as Christopher Sly, a tinker dressed up as a lord. The worst thing _he_ had to accuse himself of was social climbing.”

“Well, he’s playing a dangerous game if he keeps letting Katya throw herself at him. People like his father take impropriety so _seriously_.”

By “people like his father,” Lady Alys meant proles who ran with high Vor. Having heard certain Koudelka family stories from Olivia, Byerly was very familiar with the phenomenon. When they felt their social position to be inherently precarious, even very loving parents _overreacted_ if their children seemed to be doing something to threaten it.

He’d always secretly envied Evon: a tidy inheritance, an indulgent father who had not only respected his son’s disinclination for military service, but had bankrolled a degree in what must have seemed a useless subject to the elder Margraves, and had even sent him to Earth for a year to put a bit of polish on his education. What had possessed the young man to put it all at risk for a woman he apparently wasn’t even _sleeping_ with? Katya Vorzohn was pretty and amiable, but she surely, _surely_ wasn’t the stuff of which timeless passions were made.

“That’s why I’d like you to do something about it. If you possibly can.”

“I could take Evon up, I suppose. He’s a nice enough young man, and presentable, but I don’t know how much good it will do in the long run unless I can introduce him to someone else.” Lady Alys looked thoughtful. “I wonder if any of the Koudelka girls have a friend who’s the same physical type as Katya, but single, and with a bit more sense.”

Byerly tapped a few more phrases into the reader’s search panel, skimmed through the results, and looked up. “Do you know anything about what happens in _Henry the Sixth, Part Two?_ ”

“Henry the _Sixth?_ Not the Fourth or Fifth? I’m afraid I have no idea.”

“I haven’t either. Trust Sylvie Vorpennick to know one of the ones nobody ever reads. Well, I don’t imagine Sylvie’s got too many guilty secrets. I think I’ve got all I need to write that report.”

* * *

Byerly handed in the final version of his report to Lady Alys and got, within an hour, a message from McSorley ordering him to report to Cockroach Central first thing the next morning, no doubt for a face-to-face chewing-out. He grimaced and walked Rish over to Ivan’s, where they spent the evening playing Great House once again. He suggested that she stay the night there, since he had work to do and it would probably be a bit boring for her. Specifically, he needed to read _Henry the Sixth, Part Two._

It turned out not to be at _all_ boring. It was chock-full of palace intrigue, adultery, dueling, witchcraft, and a husband-and-wife team of con artists, and that was just the _first_ two acts. Why didn’t they perform this one more often?

At the end of Act 2, he found the scene that Sylvie had been quoting, and abruptly stopped enjoying the play.


	10. The Trouble with Secrets

Byerly had barely walked in the door of ImpSec HQ when one of the medics pounced on him and dragged him off to the clinic. “Give us some blood. McSorley wants you checked out to make sure you’re all right, after your experience.”

He’d been _very_ graphic in his description of the effects of black-market fast-penta poisoning in his report, in a “behold what I have endured for the greater glory of the Imperium” sort of way. Perhaps he should have dialed it back.

He allowed the medic to draw some blood and drop it into one of those pocket analyzers, which beeped after a moment. “Any damage?”

“Doesn’t look like it. Your liver’s in _remarkably_ good shape, all things considered.”

“Yes, it gets a lot of exercise.”

“Let’s see what that heart of yours sounds like, while you’re here ... Yes, very nice. McSorley was worried that you were looking a little run-down after the Vormercier case, but I don’t think there’s any cause for concern.”

_Ha, Rish, told you so._

“Feeling back to normal?”

“A bit queasy, still. Not much appetite.” It occurred to him, as soon as he’d said it, that it might not be anything physical, but rather ... Sylvie-related. In which case there was nothing the medic could do that would do a damn bit of good.

“Yes, that would be the usual effect of taking an entire bottle of anti-intoxicants at once. What possessed you to do that? Didn’t anybody tell you they didn’t work against _fast-penta?_ ”

“Probably. I guess I wasn’t paying attention.”

“Here’s a refill. Don’t take them all at once. Frequent light meals, nothing too greasy or spicy, let us know if you’re not your usual self in a day or two. Well, carry on.”

ImpSec medical staff, as a rule, went about their work with a level of efficiency and good cheer that was sometimes comforting and sometimes positively _ruthless_.

Byerly reported to McSorley’s office, as ordered. “Are you all right?” McSorley asked.

“Absolutely fine. Also,” he said quickly, before McSorley could start enumerating all the ways he’d screwed up, “I’ve got something new for you, and it’s potentially important. We’ve had Rish’s position in House Cordonah all wrong. We’re not giving refuge to a daughter and a valuable possession, or even a trusted servant. What we have on our hands is _two daughters_.” (With effort, he suppressed a smirk; the expression on Ivan’s face when he discovered that Rish was his _sister-in-law_ had been priceless.)

McSorley looked up. “You’re armed when you go out with her?”

“Always.”

“Is she?”

“Should she be?” By asked cautiously.

“Put it this way. If she were to fend off a potential human trafficker, I don’t think anybody would be too worried at that point about whether she had a stunner license.”

“I, ah, think she’s well equipped to take care of herself.”

“Good. You take care of her too.”

Oh, he _liked_ the sound of that. It was so much easier thinking of Rish as someone to be _protected_ , rather than someone to be spied upon, and it gave him hope that the rest of his world might someday come around to thinking of her that way too.

“It sounds, from your report, that she has extraordinary presence of mind. She probably saved your life.”

“I think so, too.”

“Not that it was exactly easy to work out what _happened_ from your report. Could you try putting in less _Shakespeare_ next time, and fewer _footnotes?_ ”

“I think the Shakespeare is _important_. Talk to Lady Alys, _she_ agreed with me. I ... also want to add an amendment to my report. I think Sylvie Vorpennick is involved in something fairly serious, possibly as serious as treason. And that she divorced her husband because she didn’t want him to be legally responsible for her crimes.”

“As I recall, Vorrutyer, _you_ were involved in her divorce. Prominently.”

“I didn’t decide to take her as a lover out of the blue, you know. _She_ came to _me_. She said, and this is more or less an exact quote, ‘I want a divorce, and Philippe really wants one too, he just doesn’t _know_ it yet. Can you help?’ And I said, all right, if that means you want a casual and very public love affair, I’d be happy to oblige. I thought she meant Philippe had a lover of his own. I ... don’t think that now. I’ve got reason to believe that Philippe never had a lover, never wanted a divorce, and was deeply hurt by the whole thing, and I’m also pretty sure that Sylvie never stopped caring for _him_.”

“So, where are you getting _treason_ out of any of this?”

“The passage she kept quoting. It’s a married woman talking, Eleanor, Duchess of Gloucester, and she’s been convicted of witchcraft and treason and forced to separate from her husband. She loves her husband, and she knows that her crimes have _destroyed_ him. I think we can leave the witchcraft out of it, but ... everything else fits a little too well.”

“I’ll pass it along. _You’re_ not to touch this, or to try to do any investigating on your own. You’re too close.”

“I give you my word I won’t,” he said with considerable relief. He didn’t _want_ to be investigating Sylvie.

“For that matter, try not to have any contact with _any_ of the people at Vorlynn’s party if you can avoid it. Your cover’s a little too precarious at the moment.”

“All right.”

“Meantime – we’ve got some new intel on those school bomb threats. Could you run up and ask Anderson to come down here? He may as well hear it, _his_ kids are involved.”

* * *

McSorley might have sounded skeptical to an inexperienced listener, but By could tell he was taking the Sylvie question seriously. He _hadn’t_ said “You’re not paid to think, Vorrutyer, you’re paid to listen and observe and report back,” which was McSorley’s usual line when he didn’t intend to pay attention.

Of course he was taking it seriously. High-Vor traitors were to McSorley what catnip was to Contraband.

 _Fuck_.

Byerly ducked into the men’s room and spent several minutes leaning heavily on one of the sinks, until he was absolutely sure he wasn’t going to be sick again. _God, Sylvie_ , he wondered, _what are you up to and what were you thinking? And why in the hell did you have to pick an undercover ImpSec man?_

He splashed some water on his face and reminded himself that McSorley might be _prejudiced_ , but he’d never known him to be _unjust_. And then he went to look for Alain, whose presence was always comforting, even though he knew he wasn’t going to be allowed to talk to Alain about this.

* * *

“Right,” said McSorley, once they were all settled in his office, “so the municipal guards finally stopped giving us the runaround and decided to share their evidence, probably because they think it’s a cold case already. Here’s what we’ve got on the calls. First of all, the same person is behind all five of them, or at least the same wristcom. Other than that – not much. It’s a cheap prepaid one, bought in a busy shop near the Caravanserai, paid in cash. Nobody remembers who did the purchasing, which isn’t too surprising. They must sell three hundred of that model a day.”

Byerly nodded; _he_ had bought one for Rish that very morning, possibly in the same shop.

“Isn’t there supposed to be a locator chip that tells you where the com was when the call was placed?” asked Alain.

“Disabled. Apparently it’s fairly easy to hack the chip on that model, every teenager who wants to stay out past curfew knows how to do it. There were some heavy voice distortions that are consistent with the call being placed from within school grounds, although of course they’re also consistent with it being placed from _anywhere_ on the edge of a com-blocking field. Unfortunately, the distortion is also going to make it virtually impossible to get a computer voice-match once we have suspects.”

“Wait, explain that,” said Byerly. “ _Why_ are calls placed from inside schools distorted?”

“They aren’t _intended_ to be,” Alain explained. “They’re intended to be totally blocked, with an override for emergency calls, so the kids aren’t playing on their wristcoms all day. But there are usually patches on the edge of the field where the blocking isn’t complete, so you get calls that are fuzzy and distorted but still audible.”

Byerly thought back to his own misspent adolescence. “So, of course, the students know all about those patches, and are constantly calling each other up to listen to the funny things it does to their voices.”

“Naturally,” said Alain. “It’s like high-tech helium.”

“They gave us a partial recording of one of the calls,” said McSorley. “The secretary at one of the schools had the presence of mind to switch on her personal wristcom and record the call. It’s not very clear, but here it is.”

He tapped his comconsole screen, and a voice faded in: ... _we placed a bomb underneath the progressive school west of the Great Square_ ... A burst of staticky noise rendered a few words unintelligible. ... _set to detonate at 0930, and all of your children are now in danger_ ... There was another burst of fuzz obliterating the last few words, and a click.

“That doesn’t _sound_ like a kid,” said Byerly. “Mature male voice, surely?”

“Possibly,” said McSorley. “But I wouldn’t rule out pubescent-boy-with-heavy-distortion. The only school where the staff seemed positive that it was _not_ one of their students was a girls’ school, and they assumed at the time that it was a boyfriend trying to give his girl a day off.”

“The phrasing’s a bit ... military, isn’t it? 0930? Didn’t that raise any red flags?”

“A couple of them are military _schools_. Besides, what boy that age _doesn’t_ like to play at being in the military?”

Byerly reflected that _he_ hadn’t, but then, his schoolmates had made it abundantly clear that he wasn’t _normal_.

“Another point,” said Alain. “No kid would refer to their school as ‘the progressive school west of the Great Square,’ surely? They’d use the _name_ of the school. In this case, it’s the Countess Cordelia Vorkosigan Secondary School, isn’t it? I think By’s right, this is _political_ , and probably someone who hates the Progressives so much he won’t even _name_ them.”

“My cousin,” Byerly pointed out, “is one of the sponsors of the schools bill. I could ask him to brief me on the opposition.”

“I know,” said McSorley. “I was going to give you a few weeks of light duty, _especially_ after the other night, but it’s yours if you want it.”

“About this voice-distortion thing,” By pursued hopefully, “I kind of suspect a _person_ with really good hearing could pick up on things a machine couldn’t. May I have permission to try her out on it?”

McSorley thought. Thought really _hard_ , By suspected, trying to come up with some angle from which a refugee from Jackson’s Whole could conceivably be trying to exert inappropriate influence in a case about the politics of Barrayaran schooling, and came up blank. “All right. Let your exotic dancer have a try. But no going _beyond_ that, and no telling her more than she needs to know.”

“She isn’t an _exotic dancer_ , she’s just a dancer ... who happens to be exotic.”

“That’s what I said.”

“Well, ‘exotic dancer’ generally connotes – Dammit, McSorley, you know perfectly well what it connotes. And it isn’t like that.”

McSorley smirked, knowingly. “From what I’ve heard about this troupe, it’s damn close.”

With a herculean effort, Byerly decided not to snap at this particular bait. All of the rejoinders that sprang to mind involved pointing out just how much McSorley was _not_ a gentleman, and ... he wasn’t going there. Not in front of Alain. Besides, he wasn’t about to screw up the offer he’d just _won_.

“Normal pay rate for irregulars?”

“Yes. Go and fill out the forms and give them to Souzana.”

* * *

As soon as he started to fill out the forms, he realized he had a problem with _names_. Did Rish even _have_ a proper last name? Had the Baronne given her one? After some thought, he wrote down “Rish Arqua” (the “ghem Estif” part, even if correct, seemed unlikely to help his case that she was a suitable person for ImpSec to hire). She was probably “Lapis Lazuli” on the immigration forms, but he knew that wasn’t what she preferred ... and, well, that really _was_ an exotic dancer’s name, wasn’t it?

It flashed into his head that _Vorrutyer_ was a perfectly good name, one that would open doors and simplify certain matters immensely. He flirted, briefly, with the idea of suggesting it to her: _Hey, why don’t we get married, it would eliminate the guesswork next time I have to fill out a payroll form for you?_ After all, _Ivan_ had gotten married for an even sillier reason, and _that_ seemed to be working out.

* * *

“I’ve got a business proposition for you,” he said to Rish that afternoon. “How’d you like to do some work for my employers? It’s a small job, a matter of identifying voices, but you’d be paid for your time. And it might lead to something more steady.”

“All right,” said Rish.

He played the recording for her, a couple of times over. “Do you think you’d know that voice if you heard it again, without the distortions?”

“Oh, sure. When do you think I might hear it again?”

“I don’t know yet, but I’m working on it ... This is going to be our secret, by the way. When you’re working for ImpSec, you don’t get to tell anyone else about it. Not even your sister.” ( _Why no, that doesn’t do strange things to your relationship with your sister at all, why do you ask?_ )

Rish smiled. “You enjoy having secrets, don’t you?”

“Yes. Because it’s fun. You’ll see.” He _hoped_ that she would find it fun. Rish needed something she _enjoyed_ ; he tried his best to be witty and charming and entertaining when he was with her, but it was all too evident that she was grieving, and hungry for something he couldn’t give her. Maybe meaningful work was what she needed.

“I guess I will. Well – it’s time I tried out life as a grubber, I suppose.”

“What does that word mean, ‘grubber’? I’ve heard you use it a few times.”

“Literally, somebody who scrapes lichen off of buildings, but it's come to mean anyone who works for someone else. Only it doesn’t count if the work’s _high-status_ , like being an artist or a geneticist or a trained assassin or something. _You’d_ be a grubber on Jackson’s Whole. So would Ivan.”

“Is it insulting?”

“Yes.”

“Oh. You don’t, um, mind _having_ a job? I guess I should have consulted you beforehand, but I didn’t want to make any promises when I wasn’t at all sure that it would work out.”

“No, I don’t mind. We’re not on Jackson’s Whole, and ... Tej spent weeks working in that _shop_. If she can take it, I can.”

“This is a bit more interesting than working in a shop. I promise.”

“So the word people use _here_ – ‘prole’ – is _that_ insulting?”

“Not at all, it just means anyone who isn’t Vor. You, for example, are a prole.”

“What about that other one, ‘plebe’?”

“Yes, that one _is_ rude. I won’t say don’t use it, but – don’t use it unless you’re _trying_ to be offensive. Wherever did you pick it up?”

“From Ivan.”

“ _Ivan_ used that word?”

“He was trying to think of what sort of word _you_ would use.”

“Ivan doesn’t really _know_ me very well,” said By in some annoyance. _Ivan_ was the one who lived inside a high-Vor bubble, complete with security guard to keep the riffraff out; where did he get off thinking _By_ was snobbish?

Oh, right, because he took some pains to cultivate that impression. Dammit. That was the trouble with secrets; they cost you respect where you might have preferred to have it. He still winced a little when he thought about the promising friendship he’d had, very briefly, with Ekaterin Vorsoisson.

* * *

The girls decided to cook dinner that night. Listening to the squeals, giggles, and occasional crashing noises from the kitchen, Byerly was a little doubtful about their culinary skills, but he supposed there was always takeaway if it turned out to be an absolute disaster.

“Oh, it’s all right,” said Ivan. “They’ve been getting cooking lessons from Ma Kosti.”

Byerly poured himself a glass of wine and settled himself next to Ivan on the couch. One of the perks of having a girlfriend was that Ivan didn’t immediately shift _away_ as if he suspected By of having ulterior motives. (This was, of course, ridiculous. Well, all right, it wasn’t _absolutely_ ridiculous, since he’d always had a healthy aesthetic appreciation of Ivan, but it wasn’t like he’d make _advances_ on someone who clearly didn’t welcome them.)

“Ma Kosti gives _lessons?_ To people who didn’t know how to make _toast_ a couple of weeks ago?”

“She thinks Rish is very promising. And ... motivated, I gather.”

“Motivated?”

“I think she’s noticed how fussy _you_ are about food.”

Byerly blinked. “Wait, she’s learning to cook for _my_ sake? Is that ... usual?”

“I wouldn’t know what’s usual for _you_. I try not to _think_ about your love life.”

“ _I_ try not to think about it myself, most of the time.” He made a snap decision that he was not going to think about Sylvie tonight, _at all._ “I’m not really used to being in a _relationship_ , as such. Most of the time, I’ve only had ... _assignations_.”

“But –”

“What?”

“Never mind. Not the kind of thing people _talk_ about.”

“My dear Ivan, the kinds of things people don’t talk about are always the most _interesting_ things to talk about. Spill.”

“ _Everyone_ knows you’ve been seen on and off with this blond prole guy for years. _How_ he puts up with everything else you get up to, I don’t know, but I always figured he was your steady.”

“I assure you, _I_ have had to put up with much more from Alain than he has from me. Among other things, he made me be Second at his wedding.”

“Dammit, By, that’s not a decent thing to do to the poor woman!”

“May I infer from this that you regard yourself as having been indecent to your own wife?”

“That isn’t the same thing at all! You and I never –” Belatedly, the other shoe dropped, which was rather a shame, since it had been fun watching Ivan work himself into a state of righteous outrage on behalf of Mira Anderson, whom he’d never _met_. “Oh. Really?”

“Really. I’m surprised _you_ didn’t work it out, knowing everything you do, but it’s a good sign that nobody else is likely to work it out either.”

“He doesn’t mind – going into some of those places where you’ve been seen with him?”

“He’s pretty open-minded.”

Byerly was on the point of adding something waspish about “unlike present company,” when he realized that Ivan hadn’t actually said anything _closed-minded_ , at least not by the staid standards of his usual social milieu. When you considered that Ivan’s _mother_ had once treated it as an exceptionally bad joke when he’d suggested that the Emperor might prefer boys to girls (before the Emperor decided to prefer one girl very decisively), Ivan came across as positively enlightened.

“You know,” he said instead, “it occurs to me that I owe _you_ a proper Second’s speech. You really ought to have a reception before you get divorced. It would be a shame to waste a perfectly good occasion for a party.”

“Over my dead body are you giving a speech at my wedding reception! No, make that over _your_ dead body!”

“Why ever not? You were at Dono and Olivia’s wedding, so you’ve seen that I’m something of a master at the genre. Of course, I do tone it down for non-relatives. In your case, I promise not to make mention of your first three weddings, or your Betan surgery –”

Ivan clobbered him with one of the cushions. “You are _not_ a non-relative,” he said firmly, while By was still pinned underneath and flailing. “I wouldn’t put up with you for a minute if we weren’t _cousinish_.”

“I do divorces, too,” By offered once he had managed to get the cushion out of his mouth. “Donna told me my encomia of her first two husbands were things of beauty. _That_ , of course, is usually a more private ceremony.”

“I just might have to stay _married_ ,” Ivan threatened, “so that I don’t give you the opportunity.”

Lady Alys, By thought, would be _most_ interested to hear _that_. He managed to gain control of the cushion and whapped Ivan with it, just as Tej poked her head in from the kitchen. “Are you two _pillow-fighting?_ ”

“Of course not!” said Ivan and By at the same time.

“I was just, um ...” Ivan attempted to explain.

“... Trying to shut me up, and _wholly_ incapable of doing so with an elegantly phrased verbal retort, so he had to resort to crude physical measures.”

“You looked like you were the one hitting _him_.”

“That’s because I don’t engage in battles of wits with the unarmed.”

Ivan rolled his eyes. “That was an old line _a thousand years ago_.”

“Dinner’s ready,” said Rish, “if the pair of you can stop baiting each other for half a minute.”

* * *

Dinner, as it turned out, was excellent: mushroom soup to start, and pork loin dusted with herbs and stuffed with dried apricots. Byerly felt sufficiently recovered to do full justice to the meal, although he reluctantly turned down seconds. (Ivan accepted with alacrity, but Ivan had the sort of frame where an extra kilo or two wouldn’t _show_.) He did save room for a slice of pear tart with cinnamon cream, which was also first-rate.

He opened another bottle of wine, one of several that he and Rish had brought with them. After observing their opponents for a couple of nights, they had worked out a few only-slightly-underhanded strategies for winning at Great House. Tej simply didn’t have much of a head for alcohol, so that extra bottle would make it easier for them to pick her off. Ivan’s tolerance was right up there with By’s own, but he started to fall asleep around midnight, which was when By and Rish were just getting _started_.

After a couple of hours, Tej had been eliminated and Ivan’s territory was shrinking steadily, although he hadn’t noticed the last two encroachments, since he’d been snoring since his last turn. Byerly prodded him. “Wake up.”

“I wasn’t _asleep_. I happen to do my best _thinking_ with my eyes closed.”

“That’s because you don’t think at all with them _open_.”

Ivan sat up and stared at the central console. “When did _that_ happen, dammit?”

He made one of the few moves that remained available to him, and Rish swooped in. “Ha, you’re finished, natural-boy.”

Ivan threw up his hands in surrender and blinked, blearily, at the little silvery maple tree with ruby-red leaves that stood on one of the end tables. “Where did that _sculpture_ come from?”

“ _I_ win,” said Rish happily.

“No, you don’t,” said By. “I’m still in the game.”

“I mean, I won our _bet_. It took him just exactly a week to notice the sculpture.”

“Choose your forfeit, my lady. I am at your command.”

Those glorious, golden eyes swept over his body. “I’m sure I’ll think of something.”

Was this what it was like being a normal person with a normal life, he wondered? Going to work in the daytime, spending quiet evenings socializing with a few people you actually _liked_ , having a steady partner? When had that sort of lifestyle stopped sounding boring and started to seem _desirable?_ He wasn’t sure, but he did know that somewhere along the way it had also become unattainable.


	11. All Politics is Personal

It didn’t last. He’d known it wouldn’t. Rish noticed the copy of _Henry the Sixth, Part Two_ on the nightstand the next morning, and asked about it, so that was the end of the not-thinking-about-Sylvie thing. He found himself spilling the whole wretched story to Rish, in more detail than she really needed to know.

“You’ve just turned in your ex-lover for _treason?_ ”

“Well – she wasn’t a very _intimate_ sort of lover. Not like ...” (Like _who_ , exactly? He decided to start over and try again.) “Look, she wanted a divorce and she wanted to give her husband a reason to want it too, I was there and I was obliging, it was a bit of fun with an entirely pragmatic _raison d’être_. And, some time later, she said something that made me believe she might be guilty of something rather serious, so I reported it. It was my duty to report it. And it’s my employers’ duty to follow up. It could be that I’m wrong, and it’s nothing. They’ll find out, either way. They’re not going to starve her on my say-so.”

“Starve?”

“That’s ... the standard penalty for treason, if you’re Vor. Public exposure and starvation. At this time of year, the exposure will kill you before the starvation will.” He wondered why he was telling her this, except – he sort of had to, didn’t he? Because Rish was not the kind of woman you shielded from the truth.

“I’ve met her,” said Rish, a little incredulously, as if she were having a hard time grasping it all.

“Yes,” said Byerly.

“Have you ever gotten anyone executed before?”

“Yes. Several times.”

ImpSec had offered him counseling, after the first time, and he’d gone to a couple of sessions, but it didn’t seem to help nearly as much as going out drinking with Alain, so he’d quit. It occurred to him, much later, that counseling had probably been invented to protect the Alains of the world.

She was looking at him as if he’d suddenly become someone entirely different, someone she wasn’t sure she liked or trusted. “Could you _stop_ trying to make me despise myself,” he said, “because I already _do_ , all right?”

“I’m sorry,” she said, but there was definitely a little _distance_ that hadn’t been there before. And, really, he couldn’t blame her. He’d have to do the same thing that he’d done to Sylvie to _her_ if she ... decided to do anything stupid, and he knew her too well by now to think the point would have escaped her. Although, thank God, Rish wasn’t Vor, or one of the Emperor’s subjects, so _probably_ the worst thing he could do to her was get her deported.

He thought about the fact that he’d actually been flirting with the idea of _marrying_ her, and shivered a little at the potential implications. She really needed to _stay_ a non-subject, he decided.

* * *

He walked back to Ivan’s with Rish, and then took the monorail out to the town where Lev Brodsky, his predecessor, had moved after his retirement. Lev wasn’t that old, really – perhaps in his middle fifties – but he was grizzled and bearded and had the air of a veteran. It was hard to remember, sometimes, that he’d once blended in with the aimlessly drifting twentysomethings of Vorbarr Sultana, and that time hadn’t been so very long ago.

When Byerly arrived, Lev was working in his garden, which was what he did most days. When he heard footsteps approaching, he said, “Go-away-and-leave-me-alone-oh-it’s- _you_ ,” which was how he characteristically greeted By. (This was, at least, an improvement on the “come-in-and-welcome-oh-it’s- _you_ ” that his town clown persona met in most _other_ people’s houses.)

Lev straightened up and wiped his hands on his work clothes. “Did you want to come in?”

“Please.”

“Can I get you anything?” Lev asked when they were inside the house. “Coffee, tea, water, soda?” (Lev didn’t drink alcohol any more, or even keep it in the house, having imbibed enough for a lifetime back when he had By’s job.)

“Coffee, please.”

“Milk but no sugar, right? Sit down. Tell me what’s going on with you.”

“A lot of things. I seem to have met this girl, to begin with.”

“You’ve. Met. A. Girl,” said Lev, in a peculiarly spondaic fashion that suggested he wasn’t sure whether “ _You’ve_ met a girl,” “You’ve met a _girl_ ,” or “You’ve met _a_ girl” expressed the correct flavor of incredulity. But incredulity it definitely was.

Actually, Byerly reflected, it was really the _met_ part that was ... problematic. “Maybe ‘met’ isn’t the right word. She’s kind of – been assigned to me.”

“Vorrutyer, have you lost your mind? You _never_ get emotionally involved! That’s one of the first principles.”

“There isn’t the slightest indication that she’s anything other than who she claims to be, or that she’s involved with anything she shouldn’t be. I should know. She’s been in my company, or a trustworthy officer’s company, day and night since she arrived on the planet. By the way, none of this is true of the _last_ person I dated for more than a day or two. _She_ was completely extracurricular, and – I think she’s a traitor.”

“You’ve reported it.”

It wasn’t really a question, but Byerly said “Yes.”

“And you’re emotionally involved with that one _too_ , I see. Shut it off. Your guilt won’t do _her_ the least bit of good, and it’s the kind of thing that ruins good operatives.”

“You tested me once,” said By. “You made me think _you_ were a traitor. I was a _wreck_ when I went to turn you in, and at the time, you seemed to think it did me credit.”

“You were an amateur then. And what did you credit was the fact that you made the right _choice_. Nothing else matters. The job would have been yours all the same if you had done it _gleefully_.”

“Would you be having coffee with me right now if I had done it gleefully?”

Lev acknowledged the point with a slight tilt of the head, but said, “I’m _retired_. You get to choose your own associates when you’re retired. Maybe you should be thinking about it yourself. It’s one way out of your current dilemma.”

“But I’m not even forty.”

“ _I_ was forty-three when I got well out of the game. It was long enough, believe me. How old were _you_ when I met you?”

“Twenty-three.”

“There you are. You’ve been playing yourself at twenty-three for _sixteen years_. No wonder you’re losing your grip. It’s enough to drive anyone nuts.”

He’d been playing the _worst aspects_ of himself at twenty-three. Lev had just put his finger on why his public persona felt so godawful, and why it had gotten worse with time. It was a parody of juvenile insouciance, and at his age that sort of thing was grotesque.

“I’m _not_ losing my grip," he said, conscious of a slight edge in his voice that suggested otherwise, "and I can’t afford to retire. I don’t have _savings_.”

“At your pay grade, you jolly well _ought_ to have savings. Has it ever occurred to you that you have something amazingly similar to an eating disorder –”

“I do not have an eating disorder! I’m a very healthy weight!”

“– only with _money_ instead of food.”

This, By realized, was also uncomfortably on-point.

“So. Learn how to budget and live within your means like us proles do – it _won’t_ cause you to turn into your da, in case that’s what you’re worried about – and in a few years you should be well fixed to retire. In the meantime – career change. Get yourself a nice, quiet desk job. With your brains, they could use you in Analysis.”

“I’m not _military_. Analysis probably wouldn’t even look at me. Besides, getting a job in Analysis wouldn’t help with the ... conflict of interest thing.”

“No, but it would keep you out of trouble and get you out of the way of women who are going to turn your head.”

As By didn’t have the slightest desire to stay out of trouble or get out of the way of women who were going to turn his head, Lev’s advice seemed distinctly unhelpful. “I’ve got work to do in the _field_. And I’m still very good at doing it.”

“Sure, but don’t kid yourself into thinking you’re indispensable. You’re not the only one who ever passed the Brodsky test, you know. You weren’t even the best. There are other people out there who can be assigned to that particular social scene. The reason _you_ got picked was that you had the right syllable in front of your name, and that meant certain doors would open more easily for you than they ever did for me.”

“So,” said By, feeling rather put out, “my entire career is an example of what my cousin – when he’s being particularly irritating and reading political theory – would call _unearned privilege?_ ”

“Oh,” said Lev, looking at him with a considerably softened expression, “you’ve earned it. It may have been after the fact, but I don’t think _anyone_ would dispute that you’ve earned it now.”

* * *

In the afternoon, he stopped by Vorrutyer House, where he found Dono and Olivia in Dono’s study with their friends René and Tatya Vorbretten and Tatya’s young brother, Jon Vorkeres. Everyone was drinking wine and examining an assortment of images on a comconsole.

“Oh, I’m glad you’re here,” said his cousin-the-Count. “Olivia said you were coming, but I didn’t believe it. Szabo, could you open another bottle of wine and get By a glass, please? By, take a look at these, we could use someone with your sense of design.”

“What am I looking at?”

“First off – _this_ picture, with the children on the float-swings, or _that_ one?” Dono indicated a formal classroom photo.

“First one, no question. That’s the message you want to send, right? Informal, friendly, relaxed. Besides, prole children have been _playing_ with Vor children forever, it isn’t threatening.”

“I _told_ you that one was better,” said René.

“I still like the other one,” said Olivia. “I want to send the message that this is _serious_. It isn’t about who plays with whom, it’s about who gets access to all sorts of channels to – Well, power, simply put.”

“But we don’t have to _tell_ them that,” said Tatya, “not up front.”

“Who’s the audience for this?” asked Byerly.

“General public,” said Olivia.

“I’m not sure the general public is an _entity_ , and even if it were, it wouldn’t have a vote in the Joint Council.”

“Good point,” said René. “Jon, do you want to take this one?”

Jon was evidently being trained up as a potential aide to his Countly brother-in-law. Byerly resigned himself to being lectured by someone who was barely out of school.

“More specifically,” said Jon, glancing up at René every few seconds for approval, “our audience is relatively well-off and connected prole parents who need to be given a reason to _care_ that there are still a few dozen schools their children can’t attend. What we want are some people who can lobby the Counts who are on the fence – the ones who do see the justice in it, but might not be inclined to _do_ anything because they’re already being lobbied in the other direction by their friends and relatives. It’s like René always says, all politics is personal.”

“The Council of Ministers is mostly in our corner,” René added, “it’s stacked with Progressives with only a few token members from the other side, and almost half of the Ministers are proles themselves. But that’s only fifteen votes, even if we were to get them all, and there are at least two we’ll likely lose.”

When the numbers were laid out like that, Byerly thought, he could see what McSorley was going on about when he complained that the system was stacked against the proles. “Almost half” meant what, six or seven people to represent eighty-five percent of the population? He blinked: wait, was _he_ turning into McSorley?

“So we need at least twenty-five of the Counts,” René went on, “and most of them are, shall we say, mentally lazy enough to think that a system that works well enough should be let well enough alone. Personal influence is the way to win them over and see that this is an issue that affects real people.”

“This bomb-threat thing,” said By as casually as he could, “will make it harder to find people willing to stick their necks out on the issue, won’t it? I mean, parents like to know their children are going to be _safe_.”

“Yes,” said Tatya. “We were just talking about that before you came. Um, how do _you_ know about these bomb threats?”

“I do _read_ , you know. Well, I was really looking for the last two months’ worth of gossip columns, but sometimes you stumble across actual news by mistake.”

Dono looked at Byerly with bright, speculative eyes, as if he had suddenly worked out what his cousin was _doing_ there. They’d been doing a rather complicated dance around the issue of By’s profession for the last five years, without ever saying anything very openly.

“It’s awfully _provoking_ that this had to happen just now,” said Olivia, “because we need a few parents to _try_ to enroll their children and get denied, in order to make the case that this is _needed_ , and this last week or so, most of them have been getting cold feet. Gene hasn’t, of course, but his kids are awfully young, and I’d rather not be putting them on the front lines, given a choice.”

“Well, m’lady,” said Armsman Szabo, who had returned with an extra wine glass, “that’s always been the problem, hasn’t it? Whose children are going to be volunteered for this?”

Szabo never, _ever_ omitted the “m’lady” when he was talking to Olivia, although he addressed Dono and By with all the casualness of someone who had known them since adolescence and seen them at their worst.

“Well – we were hoping that the first few test cases would be the ones old enough to volunteer _themselves_ , of course. Fourteen to seventeen, or so.”

“What happens after that?” asked Szabo. “Begging your pardon, m’lady, but if you’re going to integrate all the schools, sooner or later you get to an age where children have to be _chosen-for_ ... and I don’t think I need to tell you that other children can be brutal.” His eyes rested for a moment on By, who felt himself flushing and reached at once for the bottle of wine. Really, Szabo had been part of the family _much_ too long. Didn’t armsmen ever _retire?_

“How many of these schools are really worth fighting to get into?” asked By. “I mean – I have to say my experience of high-Vor military prep school has left me _distinctly_ reluctant to inflict it on another generation. And, Dono, I’ve heard you wax eloquently sarcastic about the _girls’_ version. I believe you’ve told me more than once that you thought Olivia’s education was much better than yours.”

“It isn’t about the quality of the education,” said Olivia, “it’s about sending the message that there aren’t going to be any closed doors or secret handshakes in our society. Not any more.”

“Listen to Olivia, By,” said Dono with some asperity. “She’s the only one here who really knows what she’s talking about.”

“There are _two_ people in this room who know what they’re talking about, and _I_ think you ought to be listening to Szabo. I mean, you and Olivia – there’s a reason you had a boy first just like every other Count and Count’s heir, right? Because you were fine with being a test case for inheritance law yourself, but you weren’t about to go volunteering your daughter before she was even born.”

“We had a boy because we wanted a boy. I’m not sure I’m ever going to have a daughter, actually.”

“ _I_ want a daughter,” protested Olivia.

“You could have had twins,” Byerly suggested, as innocently as possible, “a boy and a girl, and let them decide when they were older whether they wanted to be volunteers or let well enough alone.”

There was a half-second of silence, followed by a gratifying chorus of “Oh _my!_ ” “Should we _point that out_ to Miles?” “Nah, let him figure it out on his own,” “You don’t suppose he did it on purpose?” and “Oh, hell, _no!_ ” (This last was from Dono, who had once tried to lobby Miles on inheritance law reform, and had gotten a distinctly chilly response despite Dono’s assurances that it wouldn’t be _retroactive_.)

“ _Anyway_ ,” said Dono, once the hilarity had subsided, “we’ve got a consultant coming by later to talk about the messaging and the politics. _You_ can stick to the aesthetics. Do you like this shade of blue as a background?”

“I’d make it a shade paler. More contrast with the text. And crop the image just a bit more at the left edge, so that the children are centered.”

After a few more conversations about the design for the mailers, Dono and René moved on to color-coding flimsies representing the seating plan of the Councils of Counts with flow-pens. Byerly had seen the color-coding system before, at Vorkosigan House, although this time there appeared to be no visible correlation between the _yes_ and _no_ votes on the two items. “What’s the other thing you’re coding?” he asked.

“Military installations bill,” said René. “Not really a Progressive cause at all, but useful for leverage. For example, Count Vorpatril is, as usual, on the fence about the schools issue, but one of the installations is slated to be built in _his_ district, so we should be able to get his vote in trade for ours on the installations bill.”

“The one in Vorville’s District is a waste,” said Dono, “since he’s on our side anyway. I’m going to have a word with the sponsors to see if they’d consider moving it to Vorpinski’s District.”

The Vorbrettens looked at each other. “Bit hard on poor Vorville, isn’t it?” said René.

Dono shrugged. “Ah, well, that’s how the game is played.”

“What about Count Vormirov?” asked Jon. “Isn’t there supposed to be an installation in _his_ district? Could we get a vote-trade there?”

The others exchanged amused glances. “You’ve never _met_ him, have you?” ventured Tatya.

“No,” Jon admitted. “I don’t know much about him, I’ve got the impression he’s kind of a recluse. It’s no go, then?”

“ _Definitely_ no go,” said Tatya. “The man isn’t just a Conservative, he’s _profoundly_ irrational on this particular subject. Also a self-aggrandizing fool. And yes, he’s mostly a recluse these days, although since it’s _him_ , that’s probably his single most redeeming virtue.”

“Who else do you know who’s definitely opposed?” Byerly asked.

“The usual Conservative mainstays,” said Dono, ticking them off on his fingers. “Vorvolynkin, Vorhalas, Vormoncrief, Vorspassky, Vormuir, Vorkalloner, Vorlysse, Vortugalov. No hope of picking up any votes there. And probably Vorfolse, given his family’s track record of being on the wrong side of history, _every time_.”

“Does any of them strike you as being especially outspoken about his opposition?”

“Well, Boriz Vormoncrief, of course. With _him_ it’s personal. I don’t think he cares about education in the slightest, but he’ll be opposed because it’s _me_.”

“We might be able to pick up a few of the younger Conservatives,” said Olivia. “The scholarships are meant to be a sweetener for them, among other things. It’s something that can potentially benefit _their_ children, or at least their poor relations’ children. Because being Vor doesn’t mean being wealthy, or vice versa.”

 _Yes, thank you, I was very well aware of the fact._ Byerly shook his head. “Your logic’s right, Olivia, but your _psychology_ is all wrong. Nobody likes to _admit_ that they’re the poor relations.”

Jon was looking thoughtfully at the vote-coding flimsies. “Count Vorholland wants the military installations bill to pass, doesn’t he? And he isn’t really a _firm_ Conservative like some of the others. Any chance you could call on him and sound him out?”

Byerly and Dono both cracked up laughing.

“ _Now_ what have I said?” asked Jon, in some frustration.

“René might be able to,” said Dono when he could talk again. “ _I_ can’t. You see, I’m his ex-wife.”

“Ex-husband ... surely?” said Jon doubtfully.

“Ex-wife, I think. You have to have been someone’s _husband_ to be their _ex-husband_ , and ... we are not that galactic here. Not yet. Although honestly, our marriage might have been more successful if we _were_.”

“I doubt it,” said Byerly. “He isn’t any good in bed with men either.”

Dono gave him a sharp look. “Personal experience?”

“Well – you _were_ through with him.”

“And you kept quiet about it all these years?”

“You never asked.”

René, Tatya, and Jon were taking this all in with half-amused, half-scandalized expressions, as was usual for _normal_ people who had somehow gotten dragged into Vorrutyer-land. Armsman Szabo, who had lived in Vorrutyer-land for thirty years, was his usual impassive self, only a slight twitch around the mouth betraying his appreciation.

The doorbell rang, and Szabo left to usher in the visitor. Olivia glanced up as the study door swung open a minute or two later. “Oh, hi, Gene. Thanks for stopping by, I was hoping you’d have a look at the copy for the mailers and let me know what you think of it. Can I get you anything to drink?”

The visitor didn’t answer. He was staring, with a strange, fixed expression, at the group of people clustered around the desk.

“I think you know everyone except my cousin By,” said Dono. “By, this is Gene McSorley. He’s been volunteering as a sort of consultant, helping us tweak the messaging for parents.”

“Pleased to meet you,” said By smoothly. He stepped forward and shook hands with McSorley.


	12. Adventures in Politics

Now that their consultant had arrived, Dono, Olivia, René, and Tatya embarked on an intense and contentious prep session for Dono’s debate with Count Vortugalov, which was to be followed by a question-and-answer session for the general public. Byerly found himself shoved into a corner with Jon, folding a seemingly endless stack of leaflets. McSorley cast an occasional glance in his direction, smirking a bit at finding him absorbed in such a plebeian occupation. Byerly ignored him and dutifully went on folding. If McSorley had some failings as an undercover agent, _he_ was a damn good one, and he was gathering an abundance of information about the schools bill and its opposition from the scraps of conversation the others were letting fall.

The afternoon took a more sociable turn after Charles Clement, the next heir to the Vorrutyer countship, awoke from his nap. Olivia fetched him so that the visitors could pass him around and coo over him. Byerly observed that McSorley must have visited the household before, because Dono and Olivia were _not_ playing the game they usually played with the uninitiated – which involved dressing the baby in pink, introducing him as CeeCee, and observing the effect that this had upon the _adjectives_ people used to talk about him.

McSorley seemed, in fact, to be on entirely comfortable and friendly terms with Count and Countess Vorrutyer, which was interesting, because he normally had little use for what he called _lightflyer Progressives_. Apparently, Dono didn’t fall into this category, despite being a crack pilot who possessed a very nice lightflyer. Byerly wondered what witchcraft his cousin had managed to work on McSorley. Or maybe it was Olivia’s doing.

“Snacks on the terrace?” suggested Olivia. “It’ll probably be the last day for a while that it’s warm enough. You can have the sunny spot, By, since you’re fussy.”

“I’m not _fussy_ ,” Byerly protested. “I just like to be _comfortable_.”

This caused everyone else to burst out laughing, including McSorley, who was supposed to have only just _met_ him.

The terrace that Dono and Olivia had insisted on adding to Vorrutyer House was, to By’s mind, _totally_ incongruous with the rest of the architecture, but at least they’d had the sense to put it in the back where it wouldn’t show. And he had to admit it did make a nice spot for late-afternoon socializing. He attempted to disentangle CeeCee’s exploring fingers from his collar, gave up, and followed the others out to the terrace, the baby still in his arms.

“He’s drooling on your _shirt_ , Vorrutyer,” commented McSorley, with _entirely_ too much satisfaction.

“Hand me a napkin,” said By through gritted teeth. “ _And_ another glass of wine.”

* * *

Byerly had something fairly serious to say to McSorley, and he knew he ought to stay on his handler’s good side, but when McSorley offered him a ride home and gave him the perfect opportunity for a private conversation, he suddenly found the temptation to critique his superior’s covert ops skills _irresistible_.

“You reacted _much_ too visibly when you saw me. And you kept giving me these _knowing_ looks when there was no reason for you to be looking at me at all. And you shouldn’t have called me ‘Vorrutyer’ when I’d been introduced to you as ‘my cousin By.’ He didn’t say cousin on which side, or whether I was his uncle’s son or his aunt’s, so there’s only a twenty-five percent chance that we’ve got the same name.”

“In _your_ family? You people are so inbred it’s more like seventy-five percent.”

“ _Touché_ ,” said By. For some reason, that sort of joke didn’t bother him half so much from McSorley as it did from someone like Mick Vormeitner. “But still. Also, you shouldn’t have practically fallen on the floor when I said I wasn’t fussy.”

“Vorrutyer, anyone who had known you for _three minutes_ would have found that funny.” McSorley, irritatingly, didn’t seem to be even slightly daunted by his critique. “I must say, it was _most_ enlightening seeing you outside of your usual milieu. To my dying day, I will cherish the memory of you folding leaflets like one of those schoolkids who volunteer on weekends. And who knew you had a soft spot for _babies?_ ”

“I don’t,” said Byerly hastily. “CeeCee’s special. He’s _Dono’s_ baby. And by the way, as long as we’re talking about children – there’s something I’ve been meaning to say to you. I’m sure your two older boys will do just fine at that service academy prep school you’ve picked out for them, but it is _so_ not the place for Leon. Just ... trust me on this.”

McSorley bristled. The man really did have a hair trigger when it came to questions of children, schooling, and caste. “I take it that your advice comes from your vast experience of parenthood?”

“Yes, it’s about as vast as _your_ experience of Vor-style education.”

“You learn _enough_ about education when you’re on the outside looking in,” said McSorley.

“And you learn some things about parenting when you’re on the receiving end,” Byerly retorted, although he wasn’t sure either of his parents had exactly _parented_ , as such. “Besides –” (they were drawing near his flat, and he had thought of an inspired parting shot) – “you wouldn’t want your kid to turn out just like _me_ , would you?”

“He can’t turn out exactly like you.” McSorley’s voice was suddenly empty of snark, almost hollow-sounding. “That’s what I’m trying to tell you, Vorrutyer. _You_ had the luxury of not applying to the service academy. My sons don’t. Getting accepted to the academy and putting in their twenty years as an officer is their only shot at obtaining the status you were _born_ with.” And, with infuriatingly precise timing, he let By out of the car and drove off without giving him the opportunity for a rejoinder.

* * *

After McSorley dropped him off, he spent some time thinking about children. Did all parents, with the best of intentions, end up making the worst possible choices for the children they actually got? There ought to be some better way of arranging things. _He_ would have known what to do with Leon. More than that: he would have found it easier to _decide_ about children if there were some way to be sure you ended up with a Leon, or one of Alain’s girls, rather than one of Leon’s older brothers.

Come to think of it, you probably _could_ be sure of that where Rish came from. You could order your kids like takeaway: _extra-twisted sense of humor, please, with a side order of gender nonconformity, hold the familial tendencies toward madness and sadism ..._

It sounded appealing. Except – that would _never_ have been the order his parents would have placed, would it? So, no Byerly.

However you looked at it, there was a fine line between being _chosen_ and being _chosen-for_ , as Armsman Szabo would have put it. Rish had obviously been ... chosen, and cherished, but he thought she had also been _chosen-for_ , in ways that troubled him.

* * *

Byerly attended the debate on the following night. He had meant to slip unobtrusively into the back, but Olivia pounced on him as soon as he walked in the door and handed him a stack of leaflets to distribute. Luckily, he had foreseen this possibility and dressed like one of the earnest university students who made up Count Vorrutyer’s usual army of volunteers. He was a bit too old to play the part, but it was less conspicuous than dressing as _himself_.

You could, he discovered, usually tell the supporters of the bill from the opponents by their body language and general demeanor. He made a point to seek out as many men who _looked_ opposed as possible. Some took leaflets and some didn’t, but he usually managed to get at least a word or two out of them if he greeted them and tried to engage them in conversation. He was recording it all.

“Can I have a leaflet?” asked McSorley, who had appeared at his side. Very correctly, he was not in uniform: a private citizen exercising his right to assemble and petition the government.

Byerly handed him one, although he knew that McSorley knew perfectly well what it said, having composed most of the copy _himself._

“Spotted our colleague yet?” McSorley asked under his breath. There was always a plain-clothes ImpSec man in the crowd at any political meeting.

“Third row from the back, grey suit?” The man had arrived alone, and unlike almost everyone else in the room, he _didn’t_ give off even the smallest hint of being on one side or the other. “Do you know him?”

McSorley shook his head. “No, but he was my guess too.” He studied the man for a moment. “It’s funny how much more insulting that sort of thing feels when you’re on the receiving end.”

* * *

Rish listened, patiently, to the entire two-hour recording of the debate and question-and-answer session, and shook her head. “None of the voices is right. And, mostly, the _accents_ are all wrong.”

“What sort of accent are we listening for? The recording of the call was much too fuzzy for me to tell.”

“More like Ivan’s. Or like that man who introduced your cousin at the beginning.”

“Count Vorbretten?” Byerly whistled softly. “We’re talking _high_ Vor, then. I think it’s time I paid another visit to Lady Alys ... More like Ivan’s than mine?”

“Yes. You ... do different things with your vowels. More _elongated_. Your cousin even more so.”

“Right, so we’re looking for an easterner, then.” Dammit, he’d _thought_ he’d managed to prune every trace of the Vorrutyer’s District accent from his speech, but it didn’t seem possible to conceal _anything_ from Rish.

* * *

Now that Byerly had a list of names of opponents to the schools bill, as well as a few hints about which ones might be _particularly_ interested in seeing it fail, he approached Lady Alys to ask when and how they might best be introduced to Rish.

“There’s a Conservative Party reception at Vorkalloner House in two days, before the Joint Council goes back into session. It’s short notice, but I believe I can get them to make a small adjustment to the guest list.”

“Will all of the Conservative Council members be there?”

“Most of them. With assorted deputies, high-level staff, and hangers-on. If you want the largest possible concentration of opponents to the schools bill, this is it.”

“Oh, good. When you say ‘hangers-on,’ do you mean, for example, the Conservative equivalent of what Jon Vorkeres is to René?”

“Yes, exactly.”

That sounded about right, he thought. He couldn’t _quite_ picture a Council member personally calling bomb threats into schools, but he could see one delegating his dirty tricks to someone he trusted; he could also see an eager-to-please young aide doing it upon his own initiative.

“Count Vorfolse won’t be there, of course,” said Lady Alys, “or Count Vormirov. They don’t go to parties.”

That was too bad. After the information Tatya had let drop, he was definitely _interested_ in Count Vormirov.

“What time should we be there?”

“I’ll send Christos around with the car to pick up _Rish_ at seven. It’s ... unfortunate that you’ve burned so many bridges with the Conservatives. I think I can get _her_ into this reception, but there’s no way that _you_ would be welcome.”

“It’s all right,” said Byerly cheerfully. “I’m used to going where I’m not welcome.”

“Well, _I_ am not used to helping unwelcome guests crash other people’s parties, so you’ll just have to stay home. In any case, the entire point of this exercise is to make sure they _speak_ in Rish’s presence, and they won’t do that if they’re cutting _you_ dead.”

“I can usually manage to get people to speak even if they’re trying to cut me dead. It just takes a bit of _persistence_.”

“Byerly,” said Lady Alys, in a voice that was exasperated but not unkind, “take the evening _off_. Stay home and read a _book_ or something.”

“... I think I will, at that. Didn’t you tell me once that Count Vormirov had given you his memoirs for Winterfair?”

“ _Twice_. Volumes one and two.”

“May I borrow them?”

“For as long as you like. You’re welcome to _keep_ them, as long as you let me borrow them back if the Count ever comes to call.”

* * *

“Only things that you’ve bought here on Barrayar,” Lady Alys had said when Rish asked her what she should wear. “Skirts at least mid-calf-length, high neckline, colors muted. That tan dress you got at Estelle’s should be about right. I’ll lend you some jewelry to go with it.”

“All right,” said Rish, “but I’m not exactly going to be able to pass as _Barrayaran_ , am I? Not even in dim light.”

“Of course not, dear, but with the Conservatives you want to avoid _flaunting_ the fact that you’re galactic.” Rish thought that this was easier said than done if you were bright blue, but Lady Alys went on, as if it were the simplest thing in the world, “Watch the other young women, and behave like they do. And ... don’t mention your Cetagandan background at all.”

“Anything else?”

“There will be a great deal of discussion of the minutiae of Council of Counts politics, but you needn’t have an opinion of your own. Just pretend to agree with the person you’re talking with, regardless of what they have to say. They won’t be _expecting_ you to have opinions, in any case. If you’re in any doubt what to say, just ask a question, any sort of question. Oh, and do try to look as if you’re interested in the answer.”

* * *

Lady Alys seemed to be spending most of her time socializing with the Counts and their wives; Rish had dutifully exchanged greetings with all of them, but none of the voices matched the one on the recording. She had her eye on some of the younger staffers, who had congregated on one of the terraces, and slipped off to join them.

They were nearly all men; there was a girlfriend or two, and a few very earnest-looking female staff, but they hung around the edges of the group. Just as well: it was the men she was interested in.

“Would you like a drink?” The young man who offered it was tall and clean-cut, with attractive if rather undistinctive features. She put his age at around twenty-five.

“Sure,” said Rish. A quick sniff told her the vodka-and-orange-juice he handed her wasn’t adulterated, just very strong. She took a sip and winced slightly at the imbalance of flavors.

“Who do you work for?” Rish asked.

“Count Vormoncrief. I’m a sort of researcher and general dogsbody.”

Rish’s ears pricked up. The voice was wrong, but Byerly had told her to pay particular attention to Vormoncrief’s staff. “I think I met someone who worked for Count Vormoncrief earlier this evening. Are there a lot of you?”

“ _Dozens._ He’s the leader of the Conservative party, you know. Well, I guess you _wouldn’t_ know, being galactic and all. Where are you from?”

“Jackson’s Whole.”

“Really? Wow. You must be ... relieved to be away from there.”

“Why?”

“Well, I’ve heard it’s a – It’s _Jackson’s Whole_. Not really a place for a lady.”

Rish gave him a chilly look. “It’s my home.”

“Right. Sorry, I didn’t mean to ... I’m Philo, by the way.”

She offered her hand. “Rish.” How, she wondered, did she parlay this meeting into an introduction to the _rest_ of Vormoncrief’s staff? Byerly would know. What would he say right now?

Luckily, another young man was already descending on them. “Hey, Philo. Are you going to keep the exotic foreign beauty to yourself?”

“One of your colleagues?” Rish asked, although this one’s voice wasn’t right either.

“Yeah,” said Philo, looking none too pleased at the interruption. Rish, nonetheless, introduced herself to the newcomer.

And to more of them. And more. Shortly, she found herself in the middle of a knot of young male staffers, _none_ of whom had the right voice, and most of whom were starting to feel a little ... intrusive.

“Are you and Vorrutyer really –”

“Friends,” she said, and then, because one or two of the young men seemed to find this a little _too_ encouraging, “ _Good_ friends.”

“Is that your _real_ skin color?” asked one of them, and then touched her, without so much as asking permission. Throwing her drink in his face seemed to be the sort of thing that would cause a Diplomatic Incident, although she was sorely tempted.

“Like, are people on Jackson’s Whole _shooting_ each other all the time?”

“Is it true you and Lady Vorpatril are the only survivors of a coup?”

“You speak English really well. Where’d you learn it?”

Rish answered as many questions as she could keep up with, tried to ignore the most outrageously offensive ones, and kept her mind on the fact that at least they were _talking_ , and every voice she could rule out was one step closer to the truth. She also tried to learn as many of their names as possible, although she couldn’t help noticing that most of them didn’t seem terribly interested in _her_ name.

Philo kept turning up at her elbow, and seemed to be doing his best to fend off his more aggressive colleagues. Under normal circumstances, she would have been grateful; under the present ones, he was a bit of a nuisance, though a benign one. She gulped down the rest of her drink with an involuntary shudder, dispatched him to get her another, and plunged back into the crowd. Really, parties were _tiresome_ if you kept having to seek out the most unpleasant people in the room on _purpose_ ; and she was starting to feel distinctly _alien_ , rubbed raw by all the gazes.

Someone jogged her elbow and said, “I’ve slept with your boyfriend.”

It was Count Vorholland; Lady Alys had introduced him earlier in the evening, but he’d been a lot less drunk then.

She looked him up and down. “Have you? How nice that his taste has improved since then.”

She tried to turn away, as his voice definitely didn’t match the one on the recording and she had no further interest in him, but he gripped her by the arm. “Doesn’t that _bother_ you?”

“Not particularly. I wasn’t under the impression that he was a virgin.”

“Did he tell you about me?”

“No, he didn’t. But then, _gentlemen_ don’t name names, do they?”

“Did he at least tell you he was, you know?”

“Bisexual? Yes, he did. He seems completely open and comfortable about it. _You_ appear to have a few issues.” It occurred to her that she might be able to kill two birds with one stone. “Also, you’re drunk. Haven’t you got some staff to look after you?”

Philo had reappeared. “Has he been bothering you?” He was obviously a little out of his league when it came to getting rid of a Count, but he did his best, taking Rish by the arm and steering her away without provoking a direct confrontation.

“Not bothering _me_ particularly. Just being rude about a friend of mine.”

“Ah.” Philo handed her a second, even stronger drink (dammit, she was going to have to _drink_ it, or at least pretend to be drinking it) and steered her off to the edge of the terrace, away from people ( _double_ dammit!) “Listen, I know this isn’t any of my business, but Vorrutyer ... he’s not exactly ... what we expect men to be like, around here.”

“Meaning ...?”

“I don’t know him personally, but his reputation isn’t the best. I’m just saying. Be careful. And don’t judge all of us by him.”

“I wasn’t,” said Rish. A clear picture flashed into her mind, Byerly offering his arm to Lex Vorlynn and smiling. _That’s what courage looks like. And I bet you wouldn’t be able to do that, kid, not in a million years._ And then, suddenly, she found herself unexpectedly angry. “The man I’ve gotten to know is intelligent, principled, and brave enough not to _care_ what people around here expect men to be like. I’m not by _any_ means assuming all Barrayarans are like that.”

This, finally, got rid of Philo. She plunged back into the crowd, trying to mingle with as many men as possible, and feeling more _foreign_ by the minute.

* * *

The first volume of Count Vormirov’s memoirs was simply tedious: turgid anecdotes about the Count’s youth, back in the good old days when men were men, Vor were Vor, and Barrayarans fought proper wars with other planets instead of having _diplomatic relations_ with them. These reminiscences were punctuated by long, rambling political diatribes about modern social ills, in which (Byerly noted with interest) progressive schooling featured _heavily_.

The Count had a _lot_ of opinions about education, but they could be condensed down to a few general principles. Vor boys ought to undergo a rigorous program of paramilitary training, and should also be provided with a solid grounding in mathematics, engineering, and the sort of history of which the Count approved, but no nonsense about the arts or literature, except Shakespeare, because that was _traditional_ and didn’t make people _effeminate_. The Count was less precise about what the curriculum should look like for Vor girls, but it should turn them into elegant and accomplished young ladies who were personally attractive to the Count, while by no means instilling them with the desire or the educational background to attend university, especially galactic universities, which were “burbling fountainheads of corruption” (the Count’s words). Prole children should be taught a useful trade and not overburdened with ideas that were too mentally taxing for them, as this only made them unhappy. Mixed-sex or mixed-caste education should be strictly avoided. People were destined for different stations in life, and if children were mixed together before they were old enough to know better, they ended up permanently confused: boys who thought they were girls, proles who thought they were Vor.

Byerly marked a few key passages, mixed himself a stiff drink, and turned to the second volume. This turned out to be a different reading experience altogether. The _content_ hadn’t changed that much, but the prose was tighter, sparer, and more readable. It was also _entertaining_ , in ways the Count surely hadn’t intended.

He got a clear impression of _personality_ , far more than he had gotten from the Count’s rambling first volume, and it was a decidedly unflattering one. Some gifted editor had captured the Count’s voice and made it _more so_ : the pet hobbyhorses, the unexpected shifts in topic, the utter lack of perspective ( _... the five-year-old Emperor was in danger of his life, in much the same way that all Vor children are now endangered by the blight upon traditional values which is the modern system of education ..._ )

Byerly was reading happily through the account of Vordarian’s Pretendership (in which the Count managed to give the vague impression that _he_ had personally dispatched the pretender, without ever mentioning who _had_ ), when it occurred to him that there was a fair amount of technical detail about the mechanics of bomb-detonation in there. A level of detail that did _not_ seem consistent with Valentin Vormirov’s characterization of his uncle as a technological incompetent.

He was now very anxious to meet Count Vormirov and get a recording of his voice.


	13. Calling on the Count

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wrote a [bonus drabble](http://archiveofourown.org/works/4795700) about Dono and Max, just because.

Rish was pretty sure she had spoken to every male guest at the Conservative party reception without getting a voice-match, but when she reported her lack of success to Byerly, he smiled broadly. “I can’t say I’m surprised. It confirms a theory of mine.”

“Oh. Then you sent me to do that for ... nothing?”

“Not quite nothing. Negative evidence is still evidence, and besides, you’ll get paid just the same ... How did it go, otherwise? Were the Conservatives very boring?”

“Not _entirely_ ,” said Rish, and then, “Count Vorholland, _seriously?_ ”

He didn’t ask what she was talking about, just flushed a little. “We were both very young. I’m not sure what we were thinking. Or _if_ we were thinking. What have people been _saying_ to you?”

She told him about the whole evening. He listened in silence, and then said, after a moment, “Careful about that defending-my-honor business. If you keep that up, people might start to get the idea I have some to defend, and _then_ what would become of my career?”

“It isn’t exactly fair to you, is it? Because what you do is really hard, I think I’ve just found that out, and you don’t ever get any sort of public acknowledgment or credit...”

“It’s the nature of the job. And I’ve always found it amusing that the one vice no one has ever suspected me of is _respectability_ ... Out of curiosity, was your new friend warning you off because I’m a wicked person who is going to do you harm, or because I’m beneath contempt?”

“I’m not sure _he_ knew. I got the sense that he was just ... repeating what he’d been told.”

“Ah. That’s usually the way, isn’t it? Well, rest easy, I don’t care for proper Vor society any more than they care for me. With a few honorable exceptions.”

But she could detect something a little strained underneath his assumed lightness of manner. _Nice try, wild-caught, but not quite convincing enough._

“Anyway,” she said, “I don’t think I could have done your cover any harm by speaking up. Because if _I_ didn’t think you had any good qualities, why would I be with you in the first place?”

“... Depraved tastes?”

“Yours or mine?”

“Oh, both, my dear,” he said, pulling her close. “ _Definitely_ both.”

* * *

“Have _you_ read Count Vormirov’s memoirs?” Byerly asked when he went back to Lady Alys’s flat to return them.

“Parts of the first one,” said Lady Alys. “Enough to write him a thank-you letter.”

“Not the second one?”

“No. Simon read the part about Vordarian’s Pretendership, and he said _I_ shouldn’t read it because I would find it infuriating. So I told him that if _he_ wanted to write Count Vormirov a thank-you letter, I’d be _more than happy_ to let him. And he did. It was a good letter. Perhaps a bit less ... enthusiastic than I would have pretended to be, but certainly acceptable.”

Byerly tried to wrap his head around the mental image of the formidable Illyan being maneuvered into writing thank-you letters by his still-more-formidable domestic partner, and then having the results _vetted_. “So, neither of you has read _both_ volumes?”

“No, why?”

“There are some ... differences in style. They seem to coincide with the fact that Count Vormirov hired an _assistant_ for the second volume. And I’m willing to bet my last mark that this assistant is smart, observant, and hasn’t any great love for her employer. If I’m right, she might make a very good witness.”

* * *

Because he and Dono had long since worked out a set of shared, though mostly unspoken, understandings, his cousin wasn’t too surprised when he said, “I know it’s probably hopeless, but is there any chance you _could_ try lobbying Count Vormirov about the schools bill, and if you do, could I come along?”

Dono turned up promptly at nine-thirty the next morning – rather an earlier hour than By would have chosen, but apparently a standard one for political calls. The vehicle parked outside his flat was not Pierre’s old groundcar, which was practically a _tank_ , but the smaller, sportier one that Dono had decided to splurge on last year, as a sort of compensation for settling into middle-aged monogamy, fatherhood, and respectability.

“Where’s Joris?”

“I thought I’d drive. It isn’t very often that I get you all to myself, these days.”

This wasn’t _exactly_ true, since Dono had brought Max, who was theoretically a dog but really closer to the size of a small horse. Once he had been thoroughly licked, and had discouraged Max from trying to play lap-dog, By finally managed to claim the front seat for himself, with Max stretched out in the back munching a couple of biscuits By had found in his coat pocket. For some reason, the overgrown beast always seemed to regard him as a _friend_.

“You and Gene know each other, right?” Dono asked as he drove off.

“Yes, you might say that,” said By, once he remembered who “Gene” was. He didn’t usually think about McSorley as having a _first_ name, let alone being on familiar terms with his cousin.

“Is he – Oh, my. He’s your _boss_.” It wasn’t quite a question – Dono never asked _questions_ about this particular topic – but the lack of any _denial_ was enough to send the Count into fits of laughter. “You must give each other _hell_.”

“He has a few ... issues. I was surprised to find him on friendly terms with _you_.”

“ _Unlike_ a certain young cousin of mine, who has _no issues whatsoever_ ... He seems pretty smart. Why is he still a captain, at his age?”

“Because he’s basically a communist.” Byerly recalled that McSorley had been a fairly mature lieutenant as well, and wondered, for the first time, just how _many_ times he must have been passed over for promotion because of his politics. “If you’re going to make him part of your political coalition, you do know his endgame is probably doing away with the Council of Counts, right?”

Dono flashed him a wicked grin. “You’re talking as if you were sure that isn’t _my_ endgame.”

Byerly swallowed. “ _Is_ it?”

“Maybe not immediately. Maybe not even in my own lifetime. I _do_ have to admit the view from up here is positively panoramic, and I’m reluctant to give it up. But then, that’s what _unearned privilege_ means, doesn’t it?”

“That’s what you said about being a man, and you said you weren’t willing to give that up.”

“Oh, I _earned_ that. For forty years, I earned it.”

“Is that why you don’t want a daughter? Because you wouldn’t wish being a woman on anyone else?”

“No, it isn’t. And it also isn’t because of all the awful things Vor daughters get _volunteered_ for, although that was a consideration. It’s not even about putting as many heirs as possible between Richars’s seed and the Countship, although God knows _that_ was a consideration. It’s more – well, will I be disappointed if she isn’t another _me?_ Or rather – another shot at ... _existing_ ... as the person I _would_ have been? It seemed like a lot of weight to put on some poor person I’ve never _met_ , is all.”

“You realize, of course, that Charles Clement might defeat _all_ of your scruples – _and_ all of your plans for the Countship – by taking a trip of her own to Beta as soon as she’s eighteen.”

“ _You’ll_ have to take her shopping for new clothes after she comes back, then. I’ve had enough of that for one lifetime.”

“Happy to oblige. And if I should ever have a son who turns out to be an impossibly _masculine_ sort of person – you’ll take him to sports matches and all that, right, so I don’t have to? Have we got a pact?”

Dono blinked. “ _If you should ever have a son?_ Did you get a _brain transplant_ on Komarr or something?”

“Well, no. I’ve never really had anything _against_ children. Not the quiet ones, anyway.”

“That ... isn’t most of them.”

“Relatively quiet,” Byerly amended. “It’s just that in our family, children tend to be, um...”

“Betrayed by the adults who are supposed to be _theirs_.”

“Yes. Would we ever do that? I mean, of course we think we wouldn’t, but does anybody ever set _out_ intending to do that? I’m sorry, I guess in your case that isn’t a hypothetical anymore. I’m sure _you’ll_ be brilliant at it.”

“If I’m not, he’s got Olivia for backup. The Koudelkas don’t betray their children. Mostly.”

“ _Jacksonian warlords_ don’t betray their children, it seems. Did you know that? I just found that out. What the hell is wrong with _us?_ ”

“It isn’t _us_ as such. It’s our parents’ generation, mostly. Well, and Richars. I wouldn’t want to be one of _his_ kids.”

“Funnily enough, I think Richars may have been even _more_ betrayed by his parents than the rest of us were.”

“I doubt that very much,” said Dono through his teeth.

“All right, maybe not.” It seemed advisable to back off, although By had often _wondered_ where a thirteen-year-old would have gotten the idea that puppy-murdering and attempted rape constituted normal human interaction.

“So tell me about this girl you’re seeing,” said Dono. “I keep hearing the most _interesting_ things about her. When do I get to meet her?”

“Whenever you like. Do you want the casual-and-apparently-by-chance meeting, or the proper, formal, tea-at-Vorrutyer-House kind?”

“Oh, casual-and-by-chance. _Much_ more fun. And less torturous for the poor woman. _I_ have been vetted over tea more times than I care to remember, and it’s not pleasant at _all_.”

“I can arrange that.”

“I’m looking forward to it. I want to meet this woman who has apparently set your mind running in directions where it has _never_ run before.”

“I’ve ... not really had the opportunity to think about certain things before. There aren’t all that many prospects out there for disinherited-and-disreputable sons of cadet branches of notorious families. Especially ones who also happen to be muties.”

Dono’s hands tightened on the steering grip. “Do _not_ use that _word_ about yourself.”

“Well – I am. It’s an absolutely classic mutation: distinctive, hereditary, shows up in generation after generation of Vorrutyers. And I expect you knew that, or you wouldn’t have had Pierre’s chromosomes gene-cleaned before you, ah, borrowed them.”

Dono took his eyes off the road, causing the groundcar to swerve alarmingly. “ _Especially_ do not ever use that word about Pierre in my presence. Or out of my presence, either.”

“May I use it about Richars?”

It was an interesting moment, watching upright, fair-minded Count Vorrutyer fight with passionate, angry Lady Donna. The Count won, although it was a miracle he didn’t crash the car first. “No, you can’t.” And then, because _curiosity_ also won, “ _Richars?_ Are you sure?”

“I’ve _seen_ him take the pills for it.”

“But – _he_ didn’t have any difficulty getting married!”

“Yes, it’s a pity I didn’t find out years earlier. Blackmail on _both_ sides would have been fair play.”

“I hope...” _This_ was Lady Donna talking now, bitter and furious – “I _hope_ they aren’t letting him have any of those pills in prison. Or any medical care at all. But I guess there’s no such luck. Didn’t _you_ have to go to prison to get a proper diagnosis for it?

“Not-prison,” said By, out of the corner of his mouth.

“Oh,” said Dono softly, taking this in. “I should have worked that out a long time ago ... I was a bit _furious_ with you when you first came back, did you know? Here I’d been worrying myself half to death about what might be happening to you in prison, and in you strolled, looking healthier and happier than I’d seen you in _years_ and for all the world like you’d just been on vacation for three months.”

“I’m sorry about lying to you.”

“Don’t be. You had to. And – well, I was _glad_ , of course. Just also a little angry.”

* * *

Vormirov House was a large, rambling pile of stone on the outskirts of Vorbarr Sultana. They left Max in the car with the windows cracked – by Valentin’s account, his uncle was unlikely to welcome a large dog as a visitor – and were ushered in by one of the armsmen.

Dono introduced himself, gave a vague wave of the hand in By’s direction, and said, “This is my cousin, By. He tags along” in the sort of voice that suggested having a cousin who tagged along on political lobbying visits was so common that it required no further explanation. Perhaps it _was_ if you were a Count.

“Count Dono Vorrutyer,” announced the armsman, as he showed them into the large front room, “and his cousin.”

There were four people in the room. Valentin was lounging on one of the couches with an expression suggestive of advanced ennui and holo-game deprivation. A woman of around sixty, whom Byerly took to be Lady Nadia, Valentin’s mother, sat ramrod-straight on a very uncomfortable-looking chair; a somewhat younger woman with lank, greying hair and a harried expression was sitting at the Count’s side with a portable com in front of her. The Count, who was in his seventies, was leafing through a stack of printed flimsies.

Nobody except the younger of the two women rose as they entered, but Count Vormirov glanced up. “Ah. The hermaphrodite.”

“I’m not, actually. Hermaphrodites are from Beta, and they’re quite different. They have breasts, among other things. Very nice people. At least, the two that I met were.”

“As far as _I’m_ concerned, you’re a hermaphrodite. Not a proper man, anyway.”

“Would you like to see me strip?” Dono asked pleasantly. “Because I’d be more than happy to. If the ladies would prefer to leave the room first, they may. But then again, they’re quite welcome to stay if they’d prefer to watch. I think they might find me quite ... proper, actually.”

The entire Vormirov household had fixed their attention on Dono, wondering whether he would actually _do_ it. Byerly, who knew that he would (and also knew that there was _no_ chance Count Vormirov would push him that far) took advantage of the moment to discreetly switch on the recording function on his wristcom.

A tiny symbol on the screen caught his attention, the one that meant _signal not available_. So Vormirov had a wristcom-blocker somewhere on the premises – which wasn’t altogether surprising in light of what Valentin had said about his uncle’s hatred of modern technology, but once again, it didn’t seem consistent with absolute _cluelessness_ about it.

At any rate, you didn’t need a signal to record – he’d noticed that the woman sitting by the Count had been recording dictation when they came in – and he should be able to get enough for Rish to make an identification on the voice. He took a few images of the Count, just in case they might be useful.

Count Vormirov, as Byerly had expected, backed down hastily. “That is an absolutely _disgusting_ suggestion. No one would have said such a thing before ladies in _my_ day.”

“I’m sure you’re right,” said By. “ _Much_ better to save the male strippers for gentlemen who can appreciate them properly.”

Valentin cackled. Nobody else seemed remotely amused, except, of course, Dono, who kept a more-or-less straight face but caught By’s eyes from across the room. And perhaps the younger woman; her face was impassive, but her eyes were crinkling a little at the corners.

“What are you doing here, anyway?” Valentin asked Byerly.

“Oh, you know – political lobbying visit – thought I’d come along.”

“I thought you hated politics.”

“I do, but my cousin can be ... amusing. Besides, you did say your uncle’s, er, personal assistant was a good cook.”

“Hey, Elysse,” said Valentin, “go get By some of that sour-cream cake you made yesterday. And bring us some coffee.”

The harried-looking woman nodded and rose. “Um, Valentin,” Byerly tried to protest, “I didn’t actually mean you ought to _order_ her to ... Never mind.” He supposed he _had_ sort of meant that, or at least, it wasn’t an _unreasonable_ interpretation of what he had said, and he couldn’t very well object to Valentin’s tone without breaking character.

“Good girl, Blanchard,” Count Vormirov remarked absently. “Excellent cook. And she prints off the news for me every morning. I don’t hold with reading things on vid screens. It ruins the eyesight.”

Elysse Blanchard’s own eyesight, Byerly noted, seemed to be expendable in the Count’s world-view.

Blanchard returned, bearing a tray laden with a silver coffeepot, cups, saucers, and half of a coffee cake, which she offered around to the visitors. It _was_ very good cake, not that By had especially wanted cake at ten o’clock in the morning.

“So. What were you doing here, again?” Count Vormirov asked Dono.

“I wanted to talk to you about the schools bill.”

Count Vormirov’s hand trembled, and he spilled coffee all over his jacket. “Blanchard!”

“Yes, Count?”

Count Vormirov peeled off his jacket. “Take this and put it in the sonic stain remover.”

Blanchard nodded and took the jacket away. Byerly wondered idly about the sonic stain remover, having never heard of such an appliance. It would come in handy if it worked – although, to judge from the sounds Blanchard was making down the hall, you had to rinse and pre-treat the stains first. Really, it was wholly unfair that people like Vormirov had _staff_ to do their laundry, and he didn’t.

“Now, look here, young lady,” said Count Vormirov to Dono, “or whatever you are –”

“I thought you’d decided that I was a hermaphrodite, in which case I understand ‘honorable herm’ is the respectful term of address.”

Count Vormirov was starting to turn an unhealthy shade of purple. “I don’t believe you know the first thing about _honor_ , or about _respect_ , or you wouldn’t be trying to overturn a system of education that’s worked perfectly well for _centuries_. It’s bad _enough_ , God knows, that we’ve got all of these misguided people opening progressive schools nowadays, but do you have to _force_ it on people who want a more traditional education for their children?”

“The bill doesn’t dictate the curriculum for any school, you understand,” said Dono. “In practice, the main effect will be to make that traditional education available to _anyone_ who wants it.”

“Vor culture is _unique_ ,” said Vormirov, “founded as it is on the ideals of duty and service. The proles are all very well in their place, but they don’t really _understand_ those ideals – they’re not _bred into_ them in the same way. The effect of what you’re proposing would be to destroy the _purity_ of our culture – destroy it _forever_ , because when something that fragile and precious is damaged, it can’t be repaired.”

“Perhaps a culture _that_ fragile belongs in a museum, and not the modern world,” suggested Dono.

Count Vormirov rose to his feet. “So you admit it. Your real agenda is destroying what’s left of a proud tradition and replacing it with – with _galactic perversions_ like yourself. I _said_ the Council would regret confirming you. I’m only surprised it’s taken so long.”

“ _Really_ , Simeon,” interrupted Lady Nadia, “how many times do I have to tell you it’s a waste of time _engaging_ with people like that? Besides, you remember what it did to your digestion the _last_ time you got into an argument about the schools bill.”

“ _Everyone_ remembers what it did to your digestion,” said Valentin with a slight smirk, “because we had to listen to you complain _all the next day_.”

Byerly began to have a twinge of sympathy for the obviously embarrassed Count as Lady Nadia continued, “What do _you_ care about it, anyway? You never managed to produce any children of your own.” Lady Nadia looked smug, serene in the conviction that she had done her duty, although By wasn’t sure Valentin was exactly an _advertisement_ for procreation.

“I’ve seen what modern education has done to the younger generation. Degenerates, radicals, useless layabouts.” Count Vormirov glared meaningfully at _everyone_ under the age of fifty in the room, with the exception of Elysse Blanchard, who had come back in and silently begun refilling the coffee cups. He seemed to be trying to decide which of them he disapproved of the most, and finally settled his gaze on Byerly.

“I’m not, actually,” said By. “A product of modern education, I mean. _I_ went to a very conservative and exclusive Service Academy prep school. Military drill, early morning calisthenics with cold showers afterward, committing whole Shakespeare plays to memory ... _all_ the standard high-Vor educational traditions.” He paused for a moment, allowing Count Vormirov sufficient time to evaluate the results of his preferred system of education. “The showers, of course, were communal, and there weren’t any girls around, so I had to play Juliet.”

He tried the effect of a Juliet-ish flutter of the eyelashes; evidently he was no longer as fetching as he’d been at sixteen, because Count Vormirov did not seem appreciative. Blanchard was biting her lip, face averted from the Count. Byerly decided that the impression he’d had while reading the Count’s memoirs had been correct; that dutiful facade concealed a _wicked_ sense of irony.


	14. Potatoes Don't Go Well with Heartache

“I know you probably can’t tell me what this is about,” said Dono on the way home, “but did you at least get what you were looking for?”

“Yes,” said By, feeling smug. Not only did he have _lots_ of voice-data for Rish, but he had an official record of the Count’s views on the schools bill, which seemed to go well beyond the standard arguments he’d heard at the debate and into _irrational paranoia_ territory.

“Is there any hope it’ll help with this vote? Because I have to say, trying to _persuade_ Vormirov was a massive waste of time.”

“Maybe. I’m playing a hunch, and if I’m right, it just might.”

Dono grinned. “I’ve half a mind to take you along on _all_ of my political lobbying visits. If nothing else, it would make them a hell of a lot more entertaining.”

“Please don’t,” said By with a shudder. “I don’t think I could take much more of people like the Vormirovs.”

“Yeah. _Weird_ family.” (Byerly thought that was a bit rich, coming from a _Vorrutyer_.) “Lady Nadia doesn’t seem to like the Count much, so why did she move in with him?”

“Well, her late husband wiped out his life savings through bad investments, and she hasn’t got any profession or useful skills other than being the poor-relation-of-the-Count, and neither has Valentin. Valentin says that as much as she finds _him_ a disappointment, she still can’t wait for the Count to pop off so she can sponge off her son instead of her brother-in-law.” Byerly paused to push back Max, who had been trying to insinuate himself into the front seat again. “Damned if I know why any rational adult would _choose_ to be the poor-relation-of-the-Count. I remember too well what that was like.”

“We never _minded_ when you came to stay, you know. At least, Pierre and I didn’t, and our father was generally too sozzled to care.”

“It’s decent of you to say that, but I can’t imagine you were too happy about having a couple of kids tagging after you all the time.”

“You were old enough to be interesting, and Julia was a sweet little girl. We didn’t even really mind Uncle Jaques that much. He was miserly and morose, but otherwise not that bad, as relatives go.”

“Will you do something for me?” said By, in the grip of the old, old anger that seized him whenever he thought about his father. “Will you use _those exact words_ when the old bastard finally expires? Because you’re going to speak at his funeral, aren’t you? And that’s about the most perfect eulogy anyone could give him. ‘ _We didn’t really mind him that much. He was miserly and morose, but otherwise not that bad, as relatives go_.’ An _elegant_ example of damning with faint praise.”

Dono sighed. “Yes, I will be speaking at your father’s funeral. I’m the head of his family and his district Count. No, I will not use those exact words. If you’re bound and determined to keep up your war with him on the other side of the grave, you can jolly well do the fighting yourself. _My_ job is to try to make the name _Vorrutyer_ mean something other than ‘those people who are always picking epic feuds with each other and trailing bizarre scandals in their wake’.”

“I’m ... not helping much with that project, am I?”

“You’ve helped enough.” Dono glanced away from the road long enough to give him an affectionate look. “I wouldn’t be the _Count_ if you weren’t your unscrupulous meddling self. Don’t think I’ve forgotten that.” 

* * *

“It’s the same voice,” said Rish.

“Are you positive? Do you want to hear both of the recordings again?”

“I’m positive.”

Byerly played them again, just to be sure, and she repeated the identification.

“So,” she said, switching the recording off, “tell me about playing Juliet, hmm? Did you enjoy it?”

“Very much. It was fun. Especially getting to wear the costumes.”

She looked him over, a glint of mischief in her eyes, and said, “I wonder if some of Tej’s things might fit you. I’m too small, or I’d offer you mine.”

He choked a little, recovered, and said, “I think Tej might be just a bit _curvier_ than I am.” But she was looking decidedly satisfied, as if she’d finally stumbled upon his particular flavor of _kinky_.

* * *

“ _Count Vormirov?_ ” said McSorley, obviously torn between incredulity and delight.

“Rish seemed certain about the voice-match. And _I_ think so, too. I’ve read the man’s memoirs, and he’s got a definite obsession with progressive schooling. And I was there when my cousin spoke with him about the schools bill, and my impression is that he’d do _anything_ to try to stop it. Listen.”

He played back some choice moments from the Count’s interview with Dono. McSorley remarked, “You know, if we had an _elected_ government like a civilized planet, that recording would have brought him down all by itself.”

Byerly wondered whether politicians on planets with elected governments had people following them around with recording devices _all the time_ , and whether that really qualified as a more civilized system. He was a bit vague about how democracy worked, but it did seem to involve putting an awful lot of power in the hands of people who were stupid or unscrupulous or both. Which was most of the human race, really. But then again, it was also most of the Council of Counts.

“All right,” said McSorley. “I’m willing to take a gamble on her identification of the Count, but we need more evidence if it’s going to come to trial. The Council of Counts aren’t going to much like a witness who’s a galactic. Or a woman. Let alone a woman from _Jackson’s Whole_ , for God’s sake.”

“And let alone one who’s blue?”

“Correct. _Especially_ not when it’s her word against one of their own. Quite frankly, I’d rather not use her as a trial witness at all. Because we’d have to claim her in public as one of our irregulars, and if we do that, people are going to ask awkward questions about _you_.”

“Well, that’s why God made fast-penta, isn’t it?”

“Yes. But we need more evidence just to get permission to _use_ fast-penta. Have you _seen_ the flow chart of the approval process for charging a Count with a crime?”

“I _hate_ flow charts. They don’t leave any _scope for creativity_.”

McSorley chose to ignore this last remark. “He's got experience working with explosives, you say? What was he doing that morning, do you know? The time frame on the calls is about 0745 to 0830.”

“I don’t, but he has a woman working for him who might be able to help. She gets there early in the morning, in time to prepare breakfast. Her name’s Elysse Blanchard, and my sense is that she’ll make a first-rate witness. Clever, attentive to detail, and I’ll eat my hat if she’s particularly loyal to her employer.”

McSorley nodded. “I’ll send someone to interview her and the rest of the household. Not a word of this to anyone, by the way. Not even Anderson.”

“He’s been in on this from the beginning. And, as you said yourself, _his_ children are affected.”

“I made some ... choices at the beginning of this that weren’t sanctioned by the higher-ups. I could get away with it because nobody thought this case was _important_. Now that it involves a sitting Count, it’s important. And it requires absolute discretion.”

“He’ll have to know eventually,” said Byerly. Alain’s security clearance was terrifyingly high because he _filed_ everyone else’s reports.

“Yes. As soon as we’ve made an arrest. Not before. It likely won’t be before the middle of next week. This has just become the kind of case you approach with _caution_.”

“The Joint Council vote is at the _end_ of next week.”

“Well,” said McSorley, with grim determination, “I’ll just have to make damn sure we’ve made a move by then.”

* * *

Ivan had finally gotten onto Count Falco Vorpatril’s court docket, and decided to seize upon the excuse to take his soon-to-be ex-wife away for a long weekend – a sort of _anti-honeymoon_ , Byerly supposed. At any rate, it meant he got Rish all to himself, so he approved. He tried not to think about what happened after Ivan’s divorce went through. Maybe it was only the present moment that mattered.

He borrowed Dono’s groundcar one day and took Rish for a drive, figuring it would be a shame for her to spend _all_ of her time on Barrayar in the city. They climbed higher into the hills; save for the modern roads, it might have been the Time of Isolation. The air was hazy with wood-smoke, and old women in headscarves had set up stands along the road, selling sacks of apples and potatoes at ridiculously cheap prices.

The roads grew narrower and twistier. Here and there one saw a deserted homestead, roofs tumbled down, walls bearing the scars of one war or another; they were surrounded by pine-forested valleys that plunged down to rivers, a perfectly green and peaceful landscape.

He’d had some vague idea of stopping for lunch at one of the rustic roadside inns, but he’d forgotten about the fact that there were usually all-too-recognizable lambs and pigs roasting outside, and Rish was disgusted by the entire concept. Besides ... her appearance _would_ matter out here, a hell of a lot, and he didn’t want to expose her to ... ugliness. God, it had been such a mistake to come here. It was _always_ a mistake to leave the city. What had _possessed_ him?

“Well,” he said, rather lamely, “it’s, you know, an experience you ought to have at least once. Seeing the real Barrayar, and all that.”

She gave him a look that suggested the fake Barrayar had been _quite_ bad enough, and the real one was _unspeakable_.

Things improved once Rish got the bright idea of stopping for apples; the woman selling them had homemade bread and cheese as well, and afterward, they found a spot by one of the little rivers that seemed right for a picnic. A rather _chilly_ picnic, to be sure, but the sun was bright and the apples had an irresistible tartness and crunch that made them infinitely superior to the ones you bought in the city. He stretched out on a flat rock and felt quite unexpectedly contented.

“The food here’s really good,” said Rish. “Everywhere on this planet, I mean.”

“Yes. It’s because it’s all fresh and not synthetic. I missed that, on Komarr.”

There was a hand-lettered sign that read “TO THE WATERFALL,” so they hiked up to see the waterfall, a very little one threading down the hillside. Then they drove on. When they got to the next roadside stand, Rish decided for some reason that she wanted to buy some potatoes.

“We can’t,” said Byerly, abruptly deciding to speak about the thing that had been hanging over them, “because you and Tej are about to leave for Escobar, and we couldn’t possibly finish all of them before then, and – and if I ate a whole sack of potatoes by myself, I’d get _fat_.”

Rish was looking at him with an odd expression. “Would you care to try that explanation again?” she asked after a moment.

“You’re about to leave for Escobar, and I’m going to miss you when that happens, and I don’t want to be stuck in a flat full of _potatoes_ that remind me of you, because ... potatoes don’t go at all well with heartache. Apples would be all right, because apples can be romantic under certain circumstances. Potatoes just aren’t.”

“The _I’m going to miss you_ part was all right. I think you went a little off the rails after that.”

He swallowed heavily. “I’m going to miss you. That’s all.”

“I believe I’ll miss you too, wild-caught,” she said, looking as if she meant it. “But explain to me again why that means we can’t get potatoes?”

“I guess it doesn’t. Let’s get some potatoes. And ... how would you feel about it if I came to visit you sometime on Escobar?” he suggested. He had plenty of accumulated leave time, because he never took vacations unless McSorley positively _ordered_ him to do so. Scraping together the money would be the only problem, but he still had a tidy bundle of overtime and hazard pay left over from Komarr, and he thought Dono might be good for a loan.

Rish smiled. “I think I might like that very much.”

“Good.”

* * *

So they bought potatoes, and a sack of onions as well, and the woman selling them mentioned that her son had fresh-caught brook trout. Byerly looked at Rish, and she said, “Well, all right, I suppose I ought to try it at least _once_.” So he bought a couple of trout, and paid the son a bit extra to clean and fillet them while Rish waited in the car. It would probably be better if her first non-vat-grown fish didn’t come with _heads on_.

Rish, it turned out, could take a dish as simple as fried potatoes and onions and make it _poetic_. (Byerly found himself re-evaluating his opinions about the romantic potential of potatoes.) And _he_ could do things with trout and lemon and herbs that were at least competent, and made Rish admit that there was something to be said for naturally produced fish, once you got used to the idea.

“We’re being very domestic tonight, aren’t we?” he said between bites. “I could get used to this.”

“You’d be bored in a _week_ , wild-caught,” she said. But he didn’t think he would be, and began to wonder if she might be persuaded out of Escobar.

* * *

The next evening, he took Rish to see _Measure for Measure_ at the Imperial Theater, figuring it was a good introduction to Shakespeare for someone who was not only very, very _Jacksonian_ , but addicted to serial-drama vids with highly improbable plots. He wasn’t wrong. She _loved_ it, although she took issue with the fact that Isabella reacted to the Duke’s marriage proposal by slapping him in the face and retreating to the convent.

“That isn’t in the script, actually. Shakespeare never wrote in a reaction for her, so the director can have her do pretty much anything he wants.”

“ _I_ would have married him,” said Rish.

Byerly gulped, unsure whether this was a proposal, an invitation to propose, or merely an observation that the actor playing the Duke was _hot_. He concurred heartily with this last point, because confessing to ogling another man actually seemed to be the _safest_ remark to make under the circumstances.

“Also, it would’ve been better if Angelo had gotten smoked at the end. He deserved it.”

_Right_ , By thought. _Hamlet it is next time._ Or maybe _Titus Andronicus_. She would like that one. She hadn’t quite gotten to what _he_ loved about this play, those ringing cadences of _justice, justice, justice, justice_ and _truth is truth / To the end of reckoning_ , but maybe that would come.

__* * *_ _

Byerly laughed his head off at the story of Ivan’s non-divorce, and at the conversation Rish and Tej had had with Ivan afterward. And then, when he realized that Rish was at least halfway _serious_ in proposing that he sleep with Ivan and / or Tej, he became unexpectedly sober.

“No, I don’t think so,” he said shortly. “I’ve rather gone off that sort of thing lately. And I must point out that while Tej might not know any other men here, Ivan knows plenty of _women_ , and I’m sure he could persuade one of them to take a weekend away with him if he really _wanted_ to.”

This thought had, unfortunately, also occurred to Rish. “He’s gone sort of _goopy_ over Tej. And I’m not sure how to stop him.”

He gave her a puzzled look. “It looks to me as if the goopiness is mutual. And Ivan’s quite a catch, at least by most people’s standards. An officer and a gentleman, and all that. Why do you want to stop him?”

_Because Tej is the last of my sisters, and leaving her here on Barrayar is just not an option._ But the trouble with Byerly was that he always wanted to argue and answer back; he would just ask _why_ it wasn’t an option, and even if she said _because I promised the Baronne that I would look after her until we came to a safe place_ , he’d probably argue that she’d already kept that promise. And she didn’t even know how to articulate the reasons why leaving Tej here with Ivan wasn’t good enough, except that they had something to do with the fact that Ivan, so young and strong and handsome, would someday be buried under the ground on this strange forsaken planet, and what was Tej supposed to do then? _She_ pretty clearly wasn’t thinking that far ahead, so Rish had to do it for her.

Or maybe it was just that she could see a little of their other brothers and sisters in Tej. _Is that all? Am I too selfish to give her up?_

“I don’t know,” she said at last. “ _We’re_ not goopy. Are we?”

He thought it over for a moment and said, “Tell me something. If _you_ were to try to hit me – assuming I’d given you a good reason, of course – would you be able to do it for real? Risk doing me some damage, if need be?”

“I _would_ do some damage, wild-caught. If you gave me a good enough reason.”

“There you are. _Very much_ not-goopy. Also, now you see why Tej, very nice and attractive girl though she is, isn’t my type at _all_.”

* * *

McSorley called By early in the morning the next day. “New development. _Another_ bomb threat, another school. Looks like your theory is panning out; the school fits your profile, and there’s something that sounds like an explicit reference to the schools bill. The guards coughed up the recording right away, this time. They were grateful for that tip of yours about the Vorkyl boy.”

“It was good, then?”

“Good as gold. He’d been lifting valuables from homes where he and Fairchild had been invited, small and inconspicuous items, jewelry and such. Most of the time it was never reported, people just assumed the things had gotten lost. Fairchild’s innocent, by the way. Vorkyl had been stealing _him_ blind, too.”

“Yes. I’d thought as much.” _Thus do I ever make my fool my purse._

“I’m going to send a sound file over to you. Have your girl listen to it, and tell me what she says.”

* * *

_If the bill were to pass the Joint Council, next time the bomb in the school would be real. Wake up and see what is happening to our children._

“It’s definitely him,” said Rish. “This one is a little clearer.”

The wording, however, struck By as odd, and Alain, as usual, put his finger on it when he called during his lunch break. “This one just strikes me as _half-assed_ ,” he said. “More of a _threat to have a threat_ than an actual threat, if you see what I mean. My take on it is that it’s just someone who wants to scare people and influence the Council vote, and if we get scared we’re playing straight into his hands, but Mira’s pretty spooked. She’s pulled the kids out of school and taken them to the country to visit her parents for a week. Sophie didn’t want to go at all, and I’d be on her side if it was up to me, but ... got to put up a united front and all that.”

“Why?” asked Byerly. None of the adults in _his_ family had bothered to do anything of the sort.

“It’s just what you _do_ when you’re parents. Come to think of it, I don’t really know why. I wish I could talk Mira round – not about taking them to visit her parents, _that_ part doesn’t matter – but she’s making noises about putting them back in the municipal schools, and Sophie likes private school so much better. We had a – a bit of a dust-up about it this morning.” Alain, who hated conflict, grimaced. “Any chance they’re close to making an arrest?”

“I think so. McSorley told me not to say anything until we’re sure, but ... if it’s the person I think it is, there _is_ a credible threat. As in, it’s someone with technical know-how. Mira’s not wrong to be taking it seriously.”

“I know she isn’t _wrong_. It’s just – Sophie’s very smart, and very brave, and I think she’s getting to be old enough to understand risks and make her own choices.”

Byerly thought about saying something, and then decided not to say it just yet. “So. You’re on your own this evening, I suppose? Do you want to get a drink at the usual place?”

“Sure.”


	15. Inconvenient Truth

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I posted another backstory-ficlet, the scene with Armsman Szabo that By reminisces about in this chapter: [Lessons in Self-Defense](http://archiveofourown.org/works/4880176).

The next update, late in the afternoon, came from McSorley. “We’re closing in, and you were right about the Blanchard woman making an excellent witness. She’s divorced, with a fifteen-year-old daughter at one of the schools that was threatened, and she was _more_ than happy to cooperate.”

Something clicked at the back of Byerly’s mind, and he recalled seeing Blanchard at the debate, daughter in tow. He hadn’t spoken with them. He’d been looking for male opponents of the schools bill, and the Blanchards were, of course, female. They’d also been wearing buttons that marked them as _supporters_. It was brave of Elysse to advertise her allegiances in public, he thought, given her employer’s views.

“According to Blanchard, the Count’s helplessness with technology is mostly a pose. She’s _seen_ him use a comconsole, and even fix it when it was malfunctioning. So it’s plausible that he’d have the know-how to make a call untraceable.”

“How about the know-how to _set a bomb?_ ”

“Blanchard, obviously, hasn’t witnessed him doing anything like that, but she says his commanding officer in the war was a Major Vordrushky. He’s General Vordrushky, now, and he’s retired but still living in Vorbarr Sultana. See if you can track him down and find out exactly what this explosives unit _did_ , and what sort of skills Count Vormirov might have.”

“Will do.”

“ _Also_ , and this is _gold_ , on the morning in question the whole family was together in the front room of Vormirov House, but the Count excused himself for several five- or ten-minute absences. He _said_ something about having eaten something that disagreed with him. Blanchard, Lady Nadia, and Valentin Vormirov all remembered it, and luckily it was Lady Nadia’s birthday, so they’re all certain of the date. Nobody else seems to have left the room during the time frame we're looking at, as far as they can remember.”

“That’s ... good, but all circumstantial. Is it enough to arrest a Count?”

“With the Arqua woman’s identification of the voice, it’s enough to push for it, very hard. We were able to get a tentative computer match on the second recording that supports hers, but it’s not conclusive enough to stand up by itself. Your girl had better be the real thing, Vorrutyer.”

“Oh, she is.”

* * *

The bar where By and Alain generally rendezvoused was the sort which Ivan would have referred to as One Of Those Places Where You’ve Been Seen With Him, although in point of fact it was quiet and low-key enough that _Ivan_ would probably have been perfectly comfortable there. It catered, as a rule, to gentlemen looking to conduct their affairs with _discretion_. It also had an excellent wine list.

When Byerly got there, Alain was already settled in one of the darker corners, with a beer for himself and a glass of one of the better South Continent reds for By. “I got your order right, didn’t I?”

“Normally, yes, but – wine is for _sipping_.” Byerly snagged one of the bartenders and ordered a couple of shots of vodka. “Cheers.”

He was trying to signal the bartender to repeat the order, when Alain said, “Y’know what? Why don’t we try something really radical, for a change? Something we’ve never done before.”

“Alain, if you’re finally offering to go to bed with me after all these years, I have to say your _timing_ is a bit off.”

Alain grinned. “Actually, what I mean is that I think you should just _talk_ about whatever it is that you brought me here to talk about, and skip the part where we both get completely hammered first, seeing as how we’re not as young as we used to be and I’m supposed to be at work at eight in the morning.”

“Oh. Yes, that _would_ be radical, wouldn’t it?”

“You could _pretend_ to be drunk, if that would help. I’ve heard you’re pretty good at that.”

“No, that wouldn’t help because I always lie my head off when I’m pretending to be drunk.” Byerly swallowed most of his wine, at a rate much faster than _sipping_ , and said, “All right, here it is. Your daughter Sophie is eight. _I_ was eight when my cousin Richars decided to kill me. Or at least I was pretty well convinced at the time that he wanted me dead, and I’m not sure even now that I was wrong. I was _eleven_ before I met an adult who believed me, or lifted a finger to protect me. I guess that’s all I wanted to say. It would sound more ... relevant if I were drunk.”

“In other words ... protect your kids first, worry about everything else later. Is that it?”

“Yes. That’s exactly what I was trying to say. Thank you.”

“Point taken. But – do you mind if I ask _why_ your cousin wanted to kill you?”

“Because I called him a liar, and I refused to take it back, even with my parents and all of my aunts and uncles insisting it was my other cousin who was lying. I think that’s the only time the adults in my family _ever_ put up a united front, by the way. It was like one of those rare planetary conjunctions that happen once in a lifetime.”

“And – _was_ he a liar?”

“Yes.”

“About something that mattered?”

“ _Yes_.”

“ _Would_ you have taken it back, even if you knew you would never be able to make anyone believe you if you went on telling the truth? Even if you knew he would spend the next three years trying to kill you?”

“No. You’ve heard this story before, haven’t you?”

“It’s one of the ones you generally tell when you’re drunk. You have a lot more _words_ then.”

“I don’t think I do serious conversations very well when I’m sober. Not ones about my family, anyway.”

“I’m sorry, I know you don’t like talking about them, but I promise I’m _going_ somewhere with all the questions. It wouldn’t have helped, would it, to have had an adult who said yes, I do believe you, but you need to take it back and make up with him for your own safety? What you needed and deserved and ought to have had was someone who believed you _and_ said, I will do my best to protect you _while_ you do what is right.”

“Yes. I had someone like that, eventually. One of my uncle’s armsmen caught Richars in the act and gave me lots of tea and sympathy, but he _also_ taught me some useful things about balance and centers of gravity and what to do when you’ve got to fight someone much bigger than you are.”

“There you are. I want Sophie to know how to fight something much bigger than she is, if she chooses that fight.”

“What if it’s _too big_ for her? And what if she’s too young to know it’s too big? I mean, we’re talking about someone willing to blow up _schoolchildren_.”

“Someone who _says_ he’s willing to blow up schoolchildren. There’s a difference.”

“You don’t actually _know_ whether he’s willing to do it until _after_ he does it.”

“Fair point,” said Alain. “You’ve made a _lot_ of fair points, actually, and I guess I owe Mira an apology. But, y’know, I promise I’m not an absolutely neglectful parent.”

“You’re not in _any_ way a neglectful parent. It’s because of you that I know what normal parents are _like_.”

“I’m not sure there’s any such thing as a normal parent. Even if you _start off_ normal-ish, the kids sort of _derange_ you.”

“Well, it doesn’t show very much on you.” Byerly reached for his wine glass, discovered to his annoyance that it was empty, and said, “Can I talk you into one more round?”

Alain glanced at the time. “Sure. You’ve been doing pretty well, by the way, for someone who isn’t drunk.”

“I wonder if that’s all that Betan therapy is. Learning to talk about these things when you’re not drunk. Did you know that the much-fabled Betan sex training is basically ten percent anatomy lessons and ninety percent communication?”

“Well, that would make sense,” said Alain. “Those are pretty much the only parts you can’t learn about by watching porn. I mean, I guess you can learn some of the anatomy that way, but it isn’t very accurate. By the way – you do realize that if you’re at all serious about this woman you’re seeing, you’re going to have to combine those two things sooner or later?”

“Um – _which_ two things? Drinking and watching porn?”

“Communication and – and dealing with certain things, whether or not you choose to be drunk at the time. She’s got a right to know, um...”

“Just how fucked-up the Vorrutyer package is. Yes. I know. Don’t remind me.”

“Who you _are_. And how you got to be that person.”

* * *

Byerly caught up with General Vordrushky on the following afternoon, at a bar that functioned, in practice, as a semi-exclusive club for retired officers; but Stefan, the manager, knew that By was ImpSec and ensured that he always got served.

“That’s him,” Stefan explained, “the oldest one of that group of old fossils over there. Want me to send him your way?”

“Please.”

General Vordrushky approached him a few minutes later, martini glass in hand. “Vorrutyer, is it? You look like your uncle Ges, only thinner. I suppose that’s why your father can’t stand the sight of you.”

Byerly had occasionally come across people tactless or clueless enough to make the _first_ observation in his hearing, but never anyone who had actually spoken the second part of the equation out loud. In a weird way, it was a relief to hear it spoken. “The sentiment, I assure you, is mutual.”

“You talk just like him, too. _That_ can’t have helped. Are you a pervert?”

“No!” said By, and then, because men of that generation usually had an unfortunately broad definition of “pervert” and because something about the general’s absolute bluntness seemed to demand candor in return, “At any rate, _not_ in the way that I think you mean.”

“When you get to my age, boy, you’ll know that’s the only way that counts. Stefan said you wanted to talk to me. What about?”

“Nothing very particular. I was talking to my friend Valentin’s uncle, Count Vormirov, and he asked me to look you up and give you his best.”

“Now, why would he want you to do that, I wonder?”

“He said you were his commanding officer during Vordarian’s Pretendership.”

General Vordrushky snorted. “Yes, for my sins. Not for long. After three weeks, I said ‘Either he goes or I do,’ and luckily _he_ was the one who went. I guess he must have forgotten about that. It would be just like him.”

“I’ve read a bit of his memoirs. Or rather, he’s read them _at_ me. Explosives unit, was it?”

“Yes. _Most_ unfortunate assignment. A man with the technical skills of a _baboon_ has no business anywhere near an explosives unit. Actually, a baboon would have been _preferable_.”

“I understand you can _train_ a baboon.”

“ _Exactly_. As far as I could tell, Vormirov’s only talent was taking credit for things better men had done. Haven’t read his memoirs, heard they’re more of the same.”

“The bit that he read to me went on for pages and pages about all the bombs he’d defused. In _exhaustive_ detail. One felt personally acquainted with each and every one of them.”

“Made up or plagiarized. If _he_ tried to defuse a bomb, he’d have blown up himself and everyone else within range. I made him the lookout, and then dispensed with him once he turned out to be incompetent at _that_.”

“Valentin thinks he was just _pretending_ to be incompetent. He says his uncle’s a coward, and he was probably trying to stay as far from the action as possible.”

The general snorted again and shook his head. “Simeon Vormirov hasn’t got the _brains_ to pull that off. You, now...” He set his empty glass down on the bar and motioned for another. “I always _wondered_ why Stefan never kicks you out of this place. I’d have made your acquaintance long ago if anyone had told me I was going to _like_ you. Don’t waste too much more of your time going around with Valentin, he’s a fool.” He accepted a replacement drink from the bartender and wandered back to his cronies.

Byerly took a sip of wine and considered this new information. Once again, he was getting very different accounts of Vormirov’s technical skills from different informants. He had been inclined to trust Elysse Blanchard’s judgment over Valentin’s. But Valentin’s version tallied with General Vordrushky’s, and Vordrushky was emphatically _not_ a fool. He also struck By as a speaker of pure, unvarnished, inconvenient _truth_.

Could Vordrushky and Blanchard _both_ be telling the truth? It was certainly _possible_ that a technologically incompetent young man could become more skilled later in life; but was it _likely?_

He also considered how all three of them would come across as witnesses. Valentin would make a terrible impression on the Council of Counts; even if he managed to show up sober, he was all too obviously callow, petty, and prejudiced. Blanchard was clever, observant, and professional; she would make a very good impression. But she wasn’t _Vor_ , and she had personal reasons for disliking her employer. Could they be made to trust her word over Valentin’s _and_ Vordrushky’s?

 _Should_ they? Vordrushky, it occurred to him, had _no motivation at all_ to lie, and Byerly wasn’t sure he could say the same about anyone in the Vormirov household. He could think of only one reason _not_ to trust Vordrushky’s word, and ... he thought it didn’t apply. But best to be sure.

He signaled Stefan, who came over to his end of the bar. “I take it General Vordrushky’s mind is as sharp as ever?”

“Oh, yes. People _think_ he’s senile because he’s blunt. He isn’t.”

“Memory, too?”

Stefan grinned. “I can think of a lot of people who _wish_ his memory weren’t half as good as it is.”

* * *

He called McSorley. “I’ve caught up with General Vordrushky, and I think he had something interesting to say...”

“As the Betans say, you’re a day late and a dollar short. After that last call, I pushed hard, and made the case that we had a specific, credible threat that we had to act on before the vote. The upshot was, Count Vormirov was arrested this morning. He’s confessed.”

“They got permission to use fast-penta on a _Count?_ That quickly?”

“They didn’t need it. Once the nice boys in Interrogation started chatting with him, he admitted right away that he called in bomb threats to those schools, although his story is that he was just trying to scare people and he never intended to carry them out. No way to disprove that part without fast-penta, and I don’t think we’ll get permission for that now that he’s confessed.”

Well, that seemed to settle things. And, of course, if the Count had never _intended_ to plant any bombs, his level of technical expertise was irrelevant.

“Well done, Vorrutyer. And ... tell your girlfriend well-done, too.”

* * *

It was very late in the evening, while he was drifting off to sleep beside Rish, when he had a thought that startled him fully awake.

“I need you to listen to the recordings one more time. I’m not going to tell you what you’re listening for; I just want you to tell me if you hear _anything_ about them that sounds off to you.”

He replayed the recordings on his wristcom, and Rish listened.

“The volume – it _fluctuates_. More than it normally does when someone talks. And there’s some funny stuff going on with the background noises, as well.”

“What noises? The sonic-distortion stuff?”

“No, things like – there’s _birdsong_ on one bit, as if someone had left a window open. And something like a coffee maker, but only for a second or two, and then it stops.”

He couldn’t hear any of it, but if she was right, it tended to confirm what he suspected.

“Where are the fluctuations, can you tell?”

She took a pen from the nightstand and wrote: _We / placed a bomb underneath the / progressive school / west of the Great Square / set to detonate at 0930, and / all of your children are now in danger._ And, after she had listened to the second file once again: _If the bill were to pass the Joint Council / next time / the bomb in / the school / would be real. / Wake up and see what is happening to our children._

Oh, good. A few longer _clusters_ of words, a couple of them quite distinctive. Byerly got out of bed, pulled on his bathrobe, flicked on his comconsole, and started tapping furiously away at the screen.

“What are you doing?”

“Buying some books. Searchable reader editions.”

“What’s going on?”

“I think we just arrested an innocent man.”


	16. The Most Important Difference in the World

“I thought you said he’d confessed,” said Rish dubiously.

“He did. But I think he was lying.”

“Why would he do that?”

“I still need to figure out that part.” While Byerly was waiting for the first and second volumes of Count Vormirov’s memoirs to load onto his reader, he began pacing the room, trying to get inside Count Vormirov’s head, which was really an _annoying_ place to be.

Once the books had finally loaded – which seemed like it took an age – he tried searching for a few of the longer phrases. Score on _placed a bomb underneath the_ and _set to detonate at 0930, and_. But _all of your children are now in danger_ didn’t seem to appear anywhere in either book.

He played the recording of the first call one more time. “It sounds to me like he could be saying _all Vor children_ , not _all of your children_. Do you agree?”

“Could be,” said Rish. “That’s one of the fuzzier parts, even I can’t completely make it out.”

And – _endangered_ , not _in danger_. There it was.

_If the bill were to pass the Joint Council_ wasn’t giving him any results, though, and that second recording was much clearer than the first. Oh, he remembered, there was a _third_ volume, no doubt dealing with Count Vormirov’s political career; Lady Alys had been saying she hoped the Count wouldn’t give it to them for Winterfair.

He bought a searchable edition of _that_ , and found the phrase. The entire sentence _Wake up and see what is happening to our children_ also appeared, in the midst of a diatribe about the degenerate younger generation; a few of the shorter phrases were there, as well.

He searched for something _else_ , something very particular, and didn’t find it _anywhere_ in Count Vormirov’s memoirs. _Ha_. That clinched things.

“Are you coming back to bed?” asked Rish.

“No, I don’t think so. Not any time soon. Maybe not at all tonight.”

“Can’t it wait until morning?”

“No.”

She was looking him over. She wouldn’t have seen him like this before: stony-faced, utterly serious. “You’ll be _exhausted_. You already are.”

“Doesn’t matter. I’ve got a bottle of creme de meth somewhere about, if I need it.”

Rish explained why people with heart ailments shouldn’t take amphetamines, with a level of medical detail that suggested she’d been doing _research_ about the topic. He didn’t know whether to be irritated or touched.

“ _Fine_. Coffee, then. I’ll get through.”

“If you’re planning to keep pacing around like that, d’you mind if _I_ go back to Ivan’s so I can get some sleep?”

“Not at all. I’ll walk with you.” He wasn’t going to get any sleep anyway, and he did his best thinking when he was walking around the city.

* * *

Byerly took the walk back from Ivan’s at a much quicker pace than his usual carefully cultivated saunter; the wind was biting, and he was thinking furiously. Vormirov had thrown a wrench into a perfectly gorgeous theory by _confessing_.

But he remembered, abruptly, something General Vordrushky had said: _As far as I could tell, Vormirov’s only talent was taking credit for things better men had done._

Count Vormirov _hated_ modern education. He probably thought calling in bomb threats to progressive schools was a _fine_ idea. And ... he would be entitled to a trial in the Council of Counts, and he might very well be conceited enough to think that his peers would not only refuse to convict him, but would _applaud_ him for it. Once you granted those premises, it wasn’t too hard to see why he might have preferred the tidiness of a voluntary confession to the indignity of being questioned under fast-penta.

Well – _Byerly_ didn’t find it too hard to see. Convincing anyone who hadn’t grown up among conservative high-Vor _idiots_ that it was plausible might be a problem.

He stopped into a bar, had a drink while working out the details of his theory, and then called McSorley and sketched it out.

“Vorrutyer-dammit,” said McSorley sleepily, “you pointed our way to Count Vormirov _yourself_. Yesterday you were all in favor of arresting him.”

“That was yesterday. I’ve found evidence that I didn’t know about before.”

“Your _evidence_ ,” McSorley said, in an I’m-trying-to-be-patient voice that was utterly unconvincing, “if I understand you correctly, consists of your _girlfriend’s_ opinion that the recordings sound funny in ways that none of us can verify because they are not apparent to normal human ears, and the fact the Count used some words and phrases in his books that also show up in his comcalls. Which is exactly what you’d _expect_ to happen, because usually people use the same words more than once over the course of a lifetime. I, for example, have _certainly_ used the phrase _Vorrutyer, don’t call me at two-thirty in the morning_ more than once in my life, although it is a mystery to me why I’ve _needed_ to say it more than once.”

“That isn’t the point I’m making. The point is that the calls _don’t_ use any words or phrases that don’t also appear in volume two or three of his memoirs. None at all. In particular, there’s one _name_ that doesn’t appear anywhere in his memoirs and is _also_ conspicuously absent from the calls –”

“Vorrutyer. The. Man. Has. Confessed. What more do you _want?_ ”

“Will you put one question to him for me?” asked Byerly, trying to suppress the edge of panic that kept creeping into his voice. “Will you ask him to describe _how_ he hacked his wristcom to make his location untraceable? Or better yet, bring him one and make him demonstrate. If he can’t, will you listen to me _then?_ ”

“He’s asleep in his cell. As all decent people should be at this hour. Asleep, I mean, not in cells. _You_ ought to be both asleep and in a cell, preferably the padded kind.”

McSorley cut the com, obviously out of patience. It had been a mistake to call him at this hour of the night. But, dammit, something deep inside him _revolted_ at the thought of leaving a conceited, foolish, bigoted, but _innocent_ old man to spend the night in an ImpSec cell when he ought _not_ to be there.

The bar was closing. Byerly went outside and walked around the city for a while longer, until it got too cold to walk, and ended up in an all-night café that catered to shift workers. He ordered a coffee and sat nursing it.

The best way to convince ImpSec that they’d got the wrong person was to come up with the right one, so he needed to know for sure who that was. Elysse Blanchard had certainly possessed _extensive_ recordings of the Count’s dictation, but it might have been possible for anyone in the Vormirov household to access those recordings. So Valentin and his mother also had the means. And Valentin was the one with the most obvious motive: with his uncle locked up, he’d be the de facto Count.

Byerly thought about this. He also thought about the fact that Valentin’s idea of perfect felicity consisted of _being able to play holovid games all day_. And about General Vordrushky’s assessment of Count Vormirov: _taking credit for what better men had done_ ... Was Valentin really a better man? Was he clever enough to come up with _this?_

Hadn’t Vormirov, on at least one occasion, taken credit for what a better _woman_ had done?

But however you looked at it, there was an _opportunity_ problem. Everyone in the Vormirov household had testified that the Count had been absent from the room for several five- to ten-minute periods on the morning when the first calls were made. They also agreed that the three of _them_ had all been in the same room, together, during the time frame when the threats were received. So who had been making those calls, and when?

Byerly briefly flirted with a theory in which Valentin, Lady Nadia, and Elysse Blanchard had all conspired together to frame the Count and supply alibis for each other, decided that he couldn’t quite see it, and realized that all the culprit needed was a single confederate, located _anywhere_ in the vicinity of a wristcom-blocking device. And – he drew in his breath – one of his three suspects _did_ have a plausible confederate who would have been in the vicinity of such a device.

He thought about exactly _who_ had told them _what_ about Count Vormirov, and who would have had the opportunity to do certain other things, and decided that the threads were all converging in one direction.

He finished his coffee and paid the bill. He felt too restless to sit any longer, even though there wasn’t very much he could do at this hour of the night.

Wait. _Pharmacies_ were open all night, weren’t they? And if he was right about one particular (and rather amusing) aspect of this case, there was a pharmacy clerk somewhere in the vicinity of Vormirov House with a minor but telling detail to reveal. Probably a night-shift one, too, given the long hours of Elysse Blanchard’s employment.

* * *

He’d actually started walking in the direction of Vormirov House before he realized that doing any more investigation on his own was impossible. Byerly Vorrutyer, well-known man about town and mainstay of a thousand gossip columns, couldn’t very well start flashing around an ImpSec civilian operative badge and interviewing people. But Alain Anderson, obscure records office employee, _could_. And Alain had always secretly hankered after adventure.

He waited half an hour, which was as long as he could stand, and then found a park bench and called Alain. Five o’clock in the morning wasn’t _too_ weird a time to call, was it? After all, people with children always seemed to get up at ridiculously early hours. At any rate, Alain took the call and didn’t snap at him, although since Alain never snapped at anybody, this wasn’t necessarily a sign that his behavior was _appropriate._

After a certain amount of “You want me to go where and ask who about _what?_ But _why?_ ” (which By failed to answer very coherently, since exhaustion was catching up with him), Alain finally agreed to make inquiries. Luckily, one of the images of Count Vormirov that he’d taken with his wristcom included Elysse Blanchard as well. He cropped it and sent it off to Alain.

A couple of hours later, Alain sent him a wristcom message: _Pharmacy clerk confirms woman in your image bought laxative tablets around the date you said and asked about the taste and how long they took to work now will you tell me what the hell this is about???_

_Her name is Elysse Blanchard and she works at Vormirov House I think she poisoned Count Vormirov to make sure he wouldn’t have an alibi for the bomb-threat calls._

_What do you mean poisoned he was fine yesterday and hes been in custody ever since?!!_

_Not yesterday weeks ago and not serious poisoning meant to look like food poisoning only not._

_I think maybe youd better begin at the beginning???_

This was clearly going to require a call, not just messaging back and forth. “All right. Here’s what I _think_ is the beginning. Blanchard is an intelligent woman with strong views about the schools bill. Strong enough to attend a political meeting about them, at the very least. Unfortunately, she’s living in a system where an ordinary woman has no political power except through personal influence, and the only Count she knows personally is a very strong _no_ vote, unlikely to yield to any persuasion. Somebody tries to lobby him about it anyway, within her hearing –” (in the back of his head, he heard Lady Nadia’s voice: _you remember what it did to your digestion the last time you got into an argument about the schools bill_ ) “– and he starts to express his opinions in the most bigoted and offensive terms possible, and she just _snaps_. But quietly, because this is a woman who does everything quietly. She has access to dozens of hours of audio recordings of his dictation, including his opinions of modern schooling and his memoirs of his work with an explosives unit during the war, and it’s easy enough for her to cobble snippets together so that it _sounds_ like the Count is making a series of bomb threats against schools. Only there are some telltale clicks and fluctuations in the sound quality, so she needs a way to cover those up. So she has her daughter place the calls from the grounds of her school using a cheap throwaway wristcom with the locator chip disabled, figuring the school’s wristcom-blockers will do the rest of the work. Simultaneously, she gives herself an alibi by staying in the front room with the whole family all morning, while also making sure the Count _doesn’t_ have one.”

“Because he’s in the lav. Oh, clever. But do you really think there’s enough evidence to fast-penta her?”

“Maybe not with what we’ve got right now, but I bet we’ll have it if they bring the daughter in for questioning. She’s more likely than the mother to crack, but even if she doesn’t, Blanchard will know it’s game’s-up, and I think we’ll get a voluntary confession from her if we promise immunity for the daughter in exchange. That’s how I’d play it, anyway. Are you up for trying to catch the daughter on her way to school?”

“I ... think we’d better go through the official channels. As much fun as it would be to make a citizen’s arrest, I can see a few ways it could go _spectacularly_ wrong. Especially with a minor involved. Do you want me to make the case to McSorley? I think he’ll listen to me before he listens to you.”

“He’s _already_ not listened to me. He’s of the opinion that he’s got a confession, end of story.”

“That is a point, you know. D’you really think the Count would have confessed to something he didn’t _do?_ ”

“Yes. Actually, I think it’s quite likely that he would, under the circumstances. McSorley doesn’t _know_ how people like Vormirov _think_. I do.”

“All right,” said Alain, a little dubiously. “I’ll see if I can talk him into your theory. But – there’s one more thing I’ve just thought of. If Elysse Blanchard works for Count Vormirov in his own house, is she technically a servant?”

Oh ... damn. Byerly mentally reviewed the evidence: he’d personally witnessed various members of the Vormirov household ordering her to fetch coffee and cake, and to do their laundry, and Blanchard had done it all without protest. If Count Vormirov wanted to make a legal case that she was his servant, he’d be able to do so. “I’m afraid so.”

“Do you want me to go ahead with it anyway?”

“Yes.”

Technically speaking, a servant plotting against her master _could_ be tried for petty treason. It was one of the anachronisms of the Barrayaran legal system. Nobody had actually been charged with such a crime in the last half-century, but the law was there, and a conviction carried the death penalty. And Count Vormirov was _just_ the sort of reactionary who might insist on pressing the charge.

* * *

“Vorrutyer,” said McSorley when he called an hour later, “next time you decide to play amateur detective, leave Anderson out of it. It isn’t his job, and unlike you, he’s at serious risk of getting _fired_ for running around and conducting unauthorized inquiries. _Especially_ when it makes him late to work.”

“He was willing to do it,” said By, with a twinge of guilt that he concealed from McSorley. “And he got us a witness.”

“A witness to what crime, for God’s sake? If there were a law against being _constipated_ , they’d have to arrest half the Council of Counts.”

“Get them to talk to Blanchard’s daughter in Interrogation. Let’s see what she has to say.”

“I’m not going to suggest kidnapping a minor and browbeating her!”

“It isn’t _kidnapping_ , it’s _bringing her in for questioning_. And I’d bet you good money the minor in question isn’t _innocent_.”

“Look, Vorrutyer, none of this changes the fact that we’ve already got a _confession_. Innocent people don’t confess to things.” McSorley glanced up from the vid plate and said, “What is it _now_ , Anderson?” and then, in a rather ominous tone, “I’ll be calling you back.”

* * *

But McSorley didn’t call back. Alain did, eventually, and asked whether McSorley had told By anything. When By shook his head, Alain said, “Yeah, he probably didn’t want to give you the satisfaction. You were right. About absolutely everything, including the fact that Blanchard would cough up everything if we promised not to prosecute her daughter. They insisted on confirming the confession this time, though.”

“Belated caution. But at least they learned something about voluntary confessions.”

“Yes. And of course, nobody gets over-sensitive about giving fast-penta to a _prole_ woman against her will. By the way, you’ll _never_ guess why the Count confessed.”

“Because he didn’t think the other Counts would actually penalize him,” said By, “and because he _wished_ he’d done it, even though he hadn’t.”

“Those were probably contributing factors,” said Alain, “but mostly, it was because he really, _really_ didn’t want to be questioned under fast-penta about what he was doing that morning. Because he would have had to tell ImpSec all about his _bowel problems_ , and that would be _embarrassing_.”

“Can we say _misplaced priorities?_ ”

“No kidding.”

Byerly wondered why he had spent the night exerting himself on behalf of a man who had neither redeeming social value nor common sense, and then he knew why he had. Because Elysse Blanchard hadn’t just had unfettered access to her employer’s food and drink, she’d _known_ his ego and his vanity and his lack of perspective, known him intimately enough to see exactly how to maneuver him into a false confession. And when you looked at it that way, it stopped being funny at all.

“On the technical side, was I also right about how Blanchard did it?”

“Yeah, you were dead on. It was cleverly done, but what she _didn’t_ realize was that the voice distortion would also make it almost impossible to get a voice ID on the calls. Since the bill’s up for a vote in a matter of days, and she didn’t have any way of knowing the Count was already under investigation, she panicked a bit and called another school herself, throwing in an explicit reference to the Council vote and deliberately going lighter on the distortion. She’d already kitted out Vormirov House with a wristcom blocker of its own, all ready for ImpSec to find, and she was getting a bit annoyed that no one had _noticed_ it.”

“I noticed it, but of course she wouldn’t have known that either. Did she tell the Count it was a sonic stain remover, by any chance?”

“Yes! How did you know?”

“Just a hunch.”

“Well, he believed it. And nobody else really paid attention to it or cared what it was, and the whole family and the armsmen were so used to not being allowed to use their wristcoms at Vormirov House that they simply never tried.”

“So did they let the Count go free?”

“Yeah. And then he spent an hour complaining that the cot in his cell made his back problems worse and the ready-meals weren’t fit to eat, and threatening to sue ImpSec. But you’ll be glad to know that he didn’t even _think_ of pressing a petty treason charge against Blanchard. Honestly, he seemed more puzzled and hurt than angry at her. He kept saying, ‘Elysse _hates_ me? Why?’ It was a little pathetic.”

“Good. I didn’t _think_ it would come to that ... but I wasn’t sure.”

“She’ll still get a much heavier sentence than he would have gotten.”

“Well – it _is_ a conspiracy charge, in her case.”

“More to the point,” said Alain, “she isn’t a Count.”

There was an unaccustomed note of bitterness in Alain’s usually gentle voice, prompting Byerly to ask, “How do _you_ feel about this schools bill, Alain? I’ve never asked you.”

“I want it to pass, of course. And if Sophie or Celyn decided she wanted to be one of those first test cases at one of those newly-integrated schools – well, I would do my best to find some way to afford it. But somehow I _don’t_ think there will be any scholarship money coming from schools that don’t already want my daughters there. So I wonder, in the end, if it will change all that much. I mean, people who really _want_ those fences to stay up – have ways of making sure they do.”

“But you don’t sound like you’re angry at me for helping to prop them up,” said Byerly. “McSorley’s angry at me. My cousin’s going to be furious with me. I think _I’m_ angry at me. I mean, we’ve just saved a thoroughly unpleasant old fossil and imprisoned a decent, intelligent woman whose employer provoked her past endurance.”

“But she made her _daughter_ an accomplice. I don’t call that decent.”

“You could make the argument that the daughter was old enough to be a volunteer.”

“But children naturally _want_ to please their parents. I mean – most of them do, most of the time, if they have loving parents...” Alain flushed a little, no doubt fearing he’d been tactless.

“Even if they don’t. _Especially_ if they don’t.”

“Yes. That’s just it. So even if the daughter hated Vormirov just as much as her mother did, it wasn’t very _fair_ to ask it of her.”

Alain always expected the human race, in general, to be decent and fair. Byerly had often suspected that this was the real reason why, despite having gone through field operative training, he had ended up spending his career as a glorified librarian. ImpSec didn’t know what to _do_ with people like that.

“Besides,” said Alain simply, “you wouldn’t be _yourself_ if you had done anything different.”

* * *

As Alain’s wife and daughters were still in the country with Mira’s parents, Byerly thought it would be a good opportunity to invite both Alain and Rish to his flat for dinner. He was _so_ not in the mood for anything more labor-intensive than takeaway, but it was past time he introduced them to each other.

Rish said, “Don’t bother with takeaway, Ma Kosti’s been showing us something new and I want to try it,” and Alain, who had spent his teen years working in his parents’ bakery, offered to supply dessert. Having friends like that made his duties as a host much simpler, though a bit guilt-inducing. He settled for making a salad, and opening a _particularly_ good bottle of wine.

Alain turned up with a pan of something layered and redolent of butter and spices, which looked complicated. Byerly wondered where he’d found the _time_ , and then blurted out, “Oh shit, I didn’t get you _fired_ , did I?”

“Nah.” Alain dug some cat treats out of his pocket and tossed a couple of them to Contraband, who had been rubbing up against him meaningfully. “Granted, my supervisor gave me a _major_ chewing out – it seems you’re _not_ actually supposed to treat your civilian employee badge as a license to go around questioning anyone who strikes your fancy, did you know? – but I pointed out that as one of your official contacts, I _am_ under orders to offer you all reasonable assistance with your duties, broadly defined. And McSorley backed me up.”

“McSorley did? I thought he was furious.”

“Yeah, but not with _me_ so much. He mostly just accused me of listening to you when I shouldn’t, and he backed off when I pointed out that _he_ should have been the one listening to you. McSorley isn’t ever that hard on me, he just assumes that everything we get up to is _your_ fault. It’s always been that way, all the way back to training camp.”

“Well, to be fair, I don’t think you _did_ get up to anything in training camp that wasn’t my fault, or at least my idea.”

“Not true.”

“When?”

Alain glanced toward the kitchen, where Rish was bustling about. “When you – weren’t well, I sneaked Contraband into the infirmary, remember? Totally my own idea. Did McSorley blame you for _that?_ ”

“No, he was too busy chewing me out for ... everything else related to that incident. Which I richly deserved.” Byerly thought back through the years. “You don’t, you know ... ever worry that you have too much confidence in my judgment?”

Alain snorted. “I don’t have _any_ confidence in your judgment. You have the worst judgment of anyone I’ve ever _met_. Give me a little more credit for knowing my own mind than McSorley does. I wouldn’t follow you anywhere I wasn’t willing to _go_.”

“What did you say to him that finally made him listen?”

“Oh, I just pulled the transcript of Count Vormirov’s confession, and matched all the details to the news reports about the bomb threats. There wasn’t a single detail in there that he couldn’t have gotten off the planetary network, and when I showed McSorley that, he started to realize there might be something to your theory.”

And, of course, Blanchard selected the news stories that Count Vormirov read; she’d _fed_ him the details, making sure he knew enough about the bomb threats to make a plausible confession.

“Elysse Blanchard’s a clever, clever woman.” Byerly thought back to the glimpses he’d caught of her at Vormirov House and at the debate; he would, he was almost sure, have _liked_ her, had he met her under other circumstances. “You know, it’s too bad that nobody ever showed her how to dress properly or what to do with her hair. If she’d felt like she had more options in life than being Vormirov’s drudge, she might not have felt the need to frame her employer.”

Alain blinked. “Um, By? That was so shallow that I think it went around 180 degrees and became _deep_.”

Rish, by now, had finished with whatever alchemy she was working in the kitchen and joined them; they did their best to fill her in on the day’s events, and the bits and pieces of background that she’d missed.

“You do wonder what was going on in her head,” said Alain. “I mean, I get why she’d want revenge on the man, but she also seemed to think she was somehow going to swing the results of the Joint Council vote. Which I guess she _might_ be able to do by removing one man, but it doesn’t seem _likely_. Crazy risk to take.”

Byerly was about to make a point about how Council of Counts politics worked when he was pre-empted, to his utter surprise, by _Rish_. “It’s never just one vote, is it? They all know each other, and whole blocks of them switch votes at a time because of personalities and personal influence – and a lot of them are really put off by _anything_ that looks like dirty play. Which is funny, because I get the impression they’re perfectly happy to _engage_ in dirty play as long as it doesn’t _look_ like it ... but whatever. So if one opponent of the bill is under arrest for dirty tricks at the time of the vote, that’s going to swing several of the others to support it.”

Byerly stared at her. “Yes. That would be _exactly_ how it works. How did you _know?_ ”

“I guessed from some of the things people were saying at that Conservative get-together that Lady Alys took me to. And I’ve been reading that book Duv gave Tej. There’s a whole chapter in it about how your cousin got to be Count. _You’ve_ played Blanchard’s game yourself, haven’t you?”

“No, he hasn’t,” said Alain, at the same time that Byerly said, “Well –”

Rish looked at Alain, who looked at By.

“Not the same game. Close, but not identical. The difference is that my cousin Richars was actually _guilty_ of everything he was charged with.”

“When you get to know By a little better,” said Alain to Rish, “you’ll know that _guilty or innocent_ isn’t _ever_ a technicality with him. It’s the most important difference in the world.”

He seemed to be giving her an _are you good enough for my friend?_ look. It occurred to By that Alain was probably the only person on the planet, no, the _galaxy_ , who would have questioned whether Rish was good enough for _him_ rather than the other way around. Well, maybe Dono. It was time he got around to arranging _that_ meeting, too.


	17. Victory Party

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fair warning for attempted suicide (not of a major character) and discussion thereof.

Dono, of course, had worked out enough to know that Count Vormirov’s arrest, and subsequent un-arrest, were both Byerly’s fault. His first comment on the matter was “You couldn’t have waited until _after the vote_ to let him go?”

“No, I couldn’t,” said By shortly, and the two cousins were on decidedly snippy terms for the next couple of days, until he got a wristcom message from Dono: _Schools bill passed 38-34 no thanks to you but I forgive you!!!_

_Hey I did help with the leaflets you know._

_OK you can come to victory party vorville house in two days bring girlfriend._

* * *

Just after the debriefing on the Vormirov / Blanchard case (at which McSorley was surlier and more sarcastic than usual, but did acknowledge that Byerly had done good work), Major Guillaume buttonholed By on his way out of the building.

“You’re friends with Captain Vorpatril, aren’t you?”

“Er ... yes, I suppose we’re sort of friendly. On a good day.” It occurred to By, suddenly, that there had been a lot of good days lately, and that he quite _liked_ Ivan when Ivan wasn’t being unreasonably suspicious of _him_.

“Sound him out and find out if he’s got any ambitions to be Emperor.”

“ _What?_ ” Byerly spluttered. “Emperor _Ivan?_ I can’t _wait_ to see his face when he hears that one.”

“This isn’t a joke, Vorrutyer. There are ... people who are very seriously concerned about the possibility.”

“If he wanted to be Emperor, wouldn’t he have _done_ something about it before now?”

Major Guillaume’s face was stony. “He was never _married_ before now.”

“What does that have to do with – _oh._ Seriously? There are people who are casting Tej as _Lady Macbeth?_ ”

“A young woman who was born to wealth and power, and who lost them. From a culture known for its ambition and ruthlessness. Married, suddenly and under mysterious circumstances, to a man she scarcely knows, a man who coincidentally happens to stand very near absolute rule over _three_ planets. This is _very much_ not a joke.”

“But, good Lord, if they’d ever _met_ these people – and besides, the circumstances weren’t mysterious, they were just _ridiculous_ – Never mind. Yes, I’ll sound out Ivan on the topic. Shall I report back to his mother, as per usual?”

“You’ll report to me. And to _no one_ else.”

Major Guillaume, By thought, was making him _appreciate_ McSorley like he never had before.

* * *

He asked Alain, afterward, what Guillaume’s job entailed, and Alain said, “I think he’s supposed to be making sure the Emperor’s close relatives aren’t plotting against him.”

“But the Emperor hasn’t got any close relatives except his children,” said By, “and even the only-slightly-distant ones don’t seem very interested in plotting against him.”

“Yeah. So Major Guillaume gets bored a lot. And then his imagination runs away with him.”

“How long before the Crown Prince gets old enough to do some actual plotting?”

“Dunno. Probably a few years? I mean, even when they _start_ to plot they aren’t very good at it. I’d be like, ‘what happened to all the chocolate?’ and Sophie would say a burglar came in and ate it, even though she had chocolate all over her _face_. Not really the kind of thing you need a senior ImpSec officer for.”

“So I’m in for _several more years_ of Guillaume being bored?”

“‘Fraid so. Oh, I almost forgot, I’ve got something for you.” Alain handed By a small vid chip. “I finally got Galactic Affairs to cough up those holovids you were asking about.”

“Have you watched them?”

“Nope. All yours.”

“I’ve not had a chance to ask you yet, what did you think of her?”

“I like her. She seems sharp, but _kind_. And I see what you mean about the ... the blue-thing being right for her. I think she’s sorta cute, like an elf or a pixie.”

“Just ‘sort of cute’? Not, you know, _the most beautiful person you’ve ever seen in your life?_ ”

“Ah,” said Alain, looking amused at no joke that By could possibly see. “So it’s like that, is it? I wondered.”

“So _what_ is like _what?_ ”

“The immovable man has finally met an irresistible force. Our perfect spy is in love. Welcome to the human condition, By. I think you’ll like it when you get used to it.”

“I’m not –” said Byerly, and then realized he hadn’t the slightest idea what he was or wasn’t. “I’ve been in love _before_ ,” he said at last. “I think you know that.”

“No, what _you’ve_ done is had a nice safe crush on someone who wasn’t going to complicate your life by being attracted to _men_. Possibly more than one someone, for all I know, but I can only speak for myself. Hasn’t it ever occurred to you that we wouldn’t work as _friends_ if you were pining away for me half as hard as you’ve always thought you were?”

* * *

McSorley had been sort of right: the Jewels didn’t wear much when they performed. He had also been very, very wrong: it wasn’t even remotely pornographic. After he watched the first holovid, Byerly thought that he was simply moved by great artistry; it was supremely beautiful, but it left him feeling a little raw and drained, as if touched too close to the bone.

Wait, it was a _dance performance_. Surely, it wasn’t _supposed_ to leave you feeling like you’d just watched _King Lear_.

He watched the other two vids, and then he watched them all again and again, obsessively. He was starting to understand the nature of the bond between Rish and the other Jewels, and once you understood it, just watching was enough to break anyone’s heart.

* * *

They were going to need to have a real conversation about this, he thought. About brothers, sisters, grief, hunger, heartbreak ... He _knew_ about all of those things, knew them intimately, but he’d never been any good at _talking_ about them. He was good at _cleverness_ , that was all. He could be witty and amusing and distracting all night long without ever doing more than skimming the surface of things.

The next time he picked Rish up at Ivan’s, he said, “I have something I need to tell you.” And then his courage failed him, and instead of telling her he’d been watching the vids, he found himself saying, “I finally found out what you and Tej are suspected of plotting to do. Or what _one_ person suspects, anyway. Apparently, you’re trying to get Ivan made Emperor.”

Rish snorted. “Why would anybody in their right mind want _Ivan_ to be the Emperor?”

“I know, right? And since ‘people in their right mind’ is a category that includes Ivan himself, it goes without saying that he’d never play along.”

Rish looked him over, her eyes twinkling with amusement. “Just out of curiosity, how far off are _you_ from being Emperor?”

“Oh, a long way off. I’d have to kill three or four dozen people, at least.”

Her lips twitched. “You say that as if it’s a _large_ number, wild-caught.”

“Listen, I know you’re joking, but _don’t_ talk like that in front of anybody else. People here have a tendency to be very ... humorless about the topic.”

“You joked about it first.”

“Yes, but I know where the lines are, and which ones you don’t cross. We’re off to a political party tonight, so you’ll want to be a bit restrained. We’re going among Very Serious People.”

“Oh, _God_. Is it going to be like that reception I went to with Lady Alys?”

“No, the Progressives are a bit more laid-back. And if anyone tries to treat you like a zoo animal, they’ll have me _and_ my cousin to deal with.”

* * *

“Rish, this is my cousin, Count Dono Vorrutyer. Dono, Rish.”

The Count looked Rish over, wide-eyed, and then burst out laughing, but it was such a good-natured laugh that Rish found that she couldn’t possibly take offense. “Well, I always did say you knew how to accessorize, By, but this is taking it a bit far. Did you pick her to match your jacket?”

“Most certainly _not_ ,” said By, in an even stagier manner than the one he usually adopted at parties. Almost a _parody of a parody of himself?_ The Count, Rish thought, was evidently in on the joke. “I had the _jacket_ made to match _Rish_.”

“Ah. I stand corrected. Just out of curiosity, whatever do you say to people when they ask you how you can afford to pay your tailor?”

“I explain to them that I _set_ the fashions. He’s going to get orders for a dozen more just like it over the next week, so I get a discount, naturally, for being a walking advertisement.”

“Ah. Silly me. Don’t mind me, Rish, I’ve never had any proper manners. I’m glad we’ve finally met.”

The Count had Byerly’s long-lashed, velvety brown eyes, with an identical spark of wicked laughter in them; they were almost the same height, too, and had the same coloring. Rish would have known them for relatives anywhere, but as she talked with Dono, her impression that this one was fundamentally _different_ grew stronger.

“By,” said the Count, glancing at a fair-haired young woman who was standing at the edge of the room, “why don’t you do your good deed for the year and ask Martya to dance, since Enrique can’t.”

“From what I’ve seen,” said Byerly with a smirk, “it would be more accurate to say that Enrique _shouldn’t_.” But he obeyed.

Rish watched him out of the corner of her eye as he approached the woman and led her out to the dance floor. No shortage of confidence there, even if he was a bit shorter than she was. And it appeared that he _could_ dance. She wondered what else he’d been keeping back.

The Count drew Rish aside. “He likes you quite a lot. I can tell.”

Dono’s voice had dropped in a way that signaled _this is girl talk_ , and Rish realized exactly what was _different_ about this Count.

“He likes you a lot, too,” said Rish. “He talks about you almost as if you were siblings.”

“We grew up together.” The Count lowered his – _her?_ – voice even further. “By’s not one to dwell on it or advertise it, but he’s been dealt a pretty bad hand. In more ways than one. It’s not – particularly easy for him to meet people. At least, not people he’d ever consider being _serious_ about.”

_Right, I guess being a disinherited bisexual spy with a genetic defect does kind of limit your options on Barrayar. Especially if you’re letting your job eat you alive._ “I’m not sure we’re _serious_ , exactly,” said Rish uncomfortably. “Did he tell you I’m going to Escobar?”

“Oh, I’m not asking you to stay with him forever. Just ... be gentle with him. For however long the two of you are together. And afterward.”

* * *

Byerly had just finished dancing with Martya when he caught sight of McSorley, wearing his best civilian suit but still looking indefinably out of place in the ballroom of Vorville House. He wondered whether he ought to speak to him, and decided he might as well. Dono had introduced them to each other, after all, with Olivia and René and Tatya and Jon as witnesses; it might actually look odd if they _didn’t_ speak.

“We meet again. And this must be Madame McSorley.” Byerly looked at McSorley’s wife, whom he’d never met, with some curiosity; she was attractive, if rather severe-looking, with a figure that didn’t even whisper that she’d had three babies the old-fashioned way.

“That’s _Ma_ McSorley,” she corrected, ignoring his half-bow and extending her hand for a very middle-class handshake.

“ _Enchanté_ , Ma McSorley,” he said, turning up the Vorishness a bit out of sheer contrariness. She rolled her eyes and started chatting with the political wife on the other side of her. Byerly turned back to her husband, dropping his voice. “Congratulations, McSorley. I know how hard you worked for this.”

“You don’t have to pretend you’re pleased, Vorrutyer,” said McSorley, even more quietly. “ _I_ know how hard you worked to stop it.”

“I didn’t. I mean, that wasn’t my _intention_. I know you won’t believe this, but I’m honestly glad the vote came out the way it did.”

“Oh, I believe it,” said McSorley. He took a sip of his beer and looked around the room. “You get a clear conscience, your cousin gets to give his gift to his prole countess, all of these nice people can congratulate themselves on being good progressives, and we can all go to bed happy.”

“What is it that you _want?_ ”

McSorley shook his head. “I don’t know. I think I want something much bigger than what I can have. Maybe my children will have it, someday.” He drained his beer and gave Byerly a startlingly earnest look. “Can you possibly understand, Vorrutyer?”

“Yes,” said By, “I think so.” In point of fact, he didn’t even understand whether _can you possibly understand?_ meant _are you capable of getting this at all?_ or _will you forgive me after I destroy your entire class and way of life?_ But “yes” seemed like the safest thing to say, either way. Maybe it was even true.

He wondered how long it would be before Major Guillaume or Lady Alys or somebody started asking _him_ to keep an eye on McSorley. That would just be _weird._

Rish put an end to an awkward conversation by sidling up to him and remarking, “You’ve never asked me to dance.”

“I’m not in your _league_ , my dear. Not even close.”

“How about we try anyway, hmm?”

* * *

“You’re a good dancer, wild-caught,” said Rish much later, as they were walking home. “And I like your cousin. I’d like to see more of him.”

“I expect you will if you stick around. By the way, I hope you noticed all the nuances in that conversation about my tailor.”

She thought it over. “I noticed that asking someone what they _say_ when people ask how they can afford to pay their tailor isn’t the same as _asking_ them how they can afford to pay their tailor. Is that the sort of thing you mean?”

“Yes, exactly.”

“So ... your cousin knows perfectly well how you’re paying the bills, but he isn’t officially need-to-know even though he’s the Count, so he can’t say it right out.”

“Dono _suspects_. Or rather, I suspect that he suspects, since I haven’t asked him directly. And I don’t have to report a suspicion of a suspicion to HQ.”

“Only, you already knew – or suspected that he suspected ... so he’s saying it now in front of me ... because he wants _me_ to suspect that he suspects. Ugh, this is _confusing_.”

“Welcome to my world.”

“What would happen if you reported it? Would he get in any sort of trouble?”

“No. But he would get a friendly visit from ImpSec, and by the end of it he’d be oath-sworn not to tell anyone else about me. Ever.”

“So there’s ... someone who needs to be told?”

“In the event of my death. Yes. Maybe in some other events as well. Keep in mind that I can only do my _job_ if I look like the family disgrace, but at the same time I’d rather not be remembered that way _forever_.”

“Your parents?”

“No. At least one of them wouldn’t believe the truth, anyway, not even if it were staring him in the face.” He drew a deep breath. “Tell you what. Let’s talk about something else for a while, but I promise I’ll tell you about it soon.”

“All right,” said Rish, although by this time she was _dying_ of curiosity.

It was very late at night, and the city was still and silent as they walked beside the river. Out of the corner of her eye she caught sight of something – a rather large something – tumbling into the river from a bridge. There was a splash, and then someone along the bank called out to them, “Hey, you there, come give me a hand.”

Byerly stopped and turned toward the bank. “What’s the matter?”

A man with a coil of rope over his arm emerged from the shadows. “Someone’s jumped from the bridge, sir. Hold fast to th’other end of this rope, and haul me in if he starts to drag me down. A drowning man does that, drags other people down, and on a night like this, the cold water saps your strength so’s you can’t hardly swim.”

The man stripped down to his underwear, tied one end of the rope under his arms and plunged into the river, swimming with rapid, expert strokes. The river had to be freezing, Rish thought, and it smelled insalubrious.

“Hadn’t we better call the guards?” she said. “Or a hospital. Something.”

“Yes. Hold down the blue button on your wristcom for a couple of seconds, that’ll put you straight through to emergency services.”

She made the call, and then helped By pull the bridge-jumper and his rescuer back to shore.

They dragged the drowning man up on the bank, and the stranger pumped the water out him, expertly; after a moment, he said, “He’s breathing. He’ll do all right.”

A passing groundcar illuminated the man’s face. “Good _Lord_ ,” said Byerly. “It’s Rudy Fairchild.”

Rudy had begun to shiver and twitch in the frigid night air. Byerly stripped off his coat and laid it on top of the man, and then handed his dinner jacket over to Rudy’s sodden rescuer. He did not, Rish noted, grumble theatrically about the sacrifice, as he would no doubt have done if there had been anyone present who counted as an _audience_.

Rudy’s eyes flicked open for a moment. “By Vorrutyer,” he muttered. “Oh God. Go _away_.”

Rish thought this was a somewhat ungrateful way to talk about someone who had just helped to save your life, but By ignored it. “Rudy, you fool,” he said, not without gentleness, “ _talk_ to somebody before you try that again. All right?”

Rudy nodded vaguely, although Rish wasn’t sure how much he had taken in. He was very drunk; she could smell the alcohol coming out of his pores, underneath the muddy, murky notes of the river water.

She could hear the distant wail of an emergency siren; after a minute or two, By heard it too. “Excuse us for running out on you,” he said to the man who had rescued Rudy, “but I think there’s _much_ less chance this will end up in the gossip columns if we’re not here.”

“Your jacket, sir –”

“Don’t worry about it.”

They walked away, quickly, his hand in hers. _I’m lost_ , she felt in the tightness of his grip, _please help me find myself again._

“Do you think he did it because he found out Oliver was a crook?” she asked. “Or at any rate, because he found out Oliver didn’t actually _like_ him?”

“I don’t know,” said By. “Could be. I don’t imagine it helped, anyway.” They walked along in silence for a minute or two, and then he said, suddenly, “If illusions are the only thing that keep us from jumping off of bridges, most of the time ... you do wonder what truth is actually _worth_.”

“He could have been planning to do it anyway.”

“Yeah. Maybe he picked ‘to be or not to be’ because it was on his mind, and it _isn’t_ the only Shakespeare he knows, after all.” He gave a short, ironic laugh. “Then again, maybe that’s _my_ illusion. The one that keeps _me_ from jumping off a bridge.”

“Have you ever, um ... Would you ...”

“No. I wouldn’t. I don’t like heights, first of all, nor cold water. And as far as the more general principle goes ... No. In spite of everything, I’ve not ever been really tempted.”

“I’m glad.”

“Yes. Talking people out of killing themselves is _so_ tedious, isn’t it?”

She noted the usual carefully sharpened edge of irony in the voice, but she wasn’t sure in which direction it was meant to cut, or who or what he thought he was mocking. _Do you know that yourself any more, wild-caught?_

“Come on,” he said, jamming his hands into his trouser pockets against the cold, “it’s almost morning. Let’s go to Ivan’s and see if he’ll give us any breakfast.”


	18. Primitive Native Fast-Penta

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> From this chapter onward, this story will start tracking CVA much more closely (there is a month or so that gets mostly glossed over in the book, during which time By and Rish are mostly off doing their own thing, and everything I've written so far takes place during that month). I've generally tried to avoid rewriting scenes we've already had in canon, but occasionally it's unavoidable; accordingly, a few lines of dialogue in the scene with Ivan are taken directly from the book.
> 
> This is also the point where updates might become a little less regular, as I've apparently been posting a bit faster than I write. I won't be abandoning it, I promise!

Over breakfast, Byerly dutifully sounded out Ivan about his interest in becoming Emperor. Some of the political gossip at last night’s party had given him a useful angle of approach, and it didn’t take long to verify that no such interest existed. When By brought up the possibility that marriage to a half-Cetagandan girl might be a one-way ticket out of the line of succession, Ivan was clearly _thrilled_. (And then suspicious, because Ivan might be the only non-genius in the Vorkosigan / Vorpatril clan, but he was more than smart enough to work out what had triggered this line of conversation.)

Byerly penned his report to Major Guillaume in a fit of adrenaline-fueled recklessness, and then decided he’d better get some sleep before editing it and sending it off. Probably, the more sarcastic bits weren’t a good idea. _The operative would like to note that he is most certainly not friends with Captain Vorpatril, because people you are writing ImpSec reports about aren’t your friends. If Major Guillaume would like some more ideas about how to remind the operative that he isn’t allowed to have a personal life, sending him to spy on his cousin the Count would be a good start ..._

He napped for a few hours, finished his report, and then called his sister on South Continent.

“I guess I’m, um, calling to request permission to discuss certain family matters. I know we kind of have a pact that we _don’t_ talk about that, but I’ve met someone who might need to know.”

“You’ve _never_ needed my permission to talk to anyone about that,” said Julia. “If we had a pact, it was for your sake. Never mine.”

“Oh. I guess I never thought – I don’t think about you as _protecting_ me.”

“Maybe it’s time you started,” said Julia, a little bitterly. “Maybe I’d hear from you a bit more often, if you weren’t so hung up on protecting _me_.”

“It isn’t – well, it isn’t _just_ that. My life is _complicated_ right now.”

“When is it ever _not_ complicated?”

“Never, I’m afraid. I’m sorry. Let’s not argue.” _Normal_ siblings, he thought suddenly, argued all the time, as much as they liked; but it had been a long time since he and Julia had the luxury of being normal.

“So, tell me about this ‘someone,’ hmm? Boy or girl?”

“Girl. Well, woman. She’s a little younger than we are, but not by much.”

“Is she nice?”

“I’m ... not sure _nice_ is the word I would choose. She’s got ... you know ... a bit more _edge_ than that.”

“I’m glad,” said Julia. “I don’t think _nice_ would suit you at all, not in the long run. So I’m guessing it’s serious? Considering the reason why you called me in the first place?”

“Getting serious, I think. It’s early days.”

“Does she know about – the other thing, yet? The runs-in-the-family thing?”

“She’s fine with it. Actually, I think she finds it a bit of a turn-on, if I’m not mistaken.”

“She _what?_ ” said Julia, and then, after a moment’s thought, “No, _not_ the bisexuality, silly, the _medical_ thing.”

“Well, you could have been more _specific_ , it’s not like there’s a _shortage_ of potential deal-breakers that run in the family.” They both found this inexplicably hilarious, and it was a few minutes before Byerly sobered up enough to say, “She does, actually. It doesn’t seem to be much of an issue for her. Or at least, not for the same reason it would be with most people around here. She isn’t Barrayaran.”

“Oh.” This possibility had plainly not occurred to Julia, and she looked as if she weren’t quite sure how she felt about it. “Where from?”

“Jackson’s Whole.”

“But –” Julia stopped short, as “But that’s a den of vice and iniquity” was clearly an inappropriate thing to say under the circumstances, in addition to being a statement of the bleeding _obvious_.

“It’s not – by her account, anyway, it’s not exactly the way you’d think. There are normal people there.” (He stopped short, and wondered when he had started thinking of a hostage-negotiating syndicate with eleven rainbow-colored kids as _normal_.) “Relatively normal. Well, people who live their lives and love their children and aren’t sociopaths, anyway. You know, there are people out there in the galaxy who have all kinds of bizarre stereotypes about Barrayar.”

“Oh, I know. Point taken. And – good luck. I’m glad you’ve met someone.”

* * *

He chose his range of intoxicants very carefully. Maple mead. An alarmingly strong cactus-pear brandy that was a local specialty in Vorrutyer’s District. A cheap brand of retsina that had been the poison of choice among his fellow ImpSec trainees, mainly because the Greekie tavern was the only drinking establishment in the village. He was pretty sure Rish wouldn’t be able to stand _any_ of them. This was ideal, because it meant _he_ could get completely smashed, _she_ would stay relatively sober, and it would all look like a perfectly innocent cultural experience that just happened to include a bonus digression on the topic of why he didn’t talk to his parents any more.

It occurred to him that he’d often gotten _other_ people drunk in hopes of making them spill all their darkest secrets, but he’d never actually done it to _himself_ before.

* * *

“I’ve got some holovids of the Jewels’ performances,” said By. He was trying to sound casual, but Rish could detect tension and – some other emotion that she couldn’t quite identify. “Galactic Affairs had them on file, and I asked a colleague to pull a few strings and get me some copies. Would you like to watch?”

“I’d love to,” said Rish, although she wasn’t prepared for the intense nostalgia that hit her when she watched the vids. In the stormy months after House Cordonah’s fall – the struggle to survive, and then to adapt to life on a strange new planet – she had almost forgotten that such things _were_.

She told him a little about what they were watching, talking half to herself: “That one’s from the time we toured Earth, I remember Pearl was keen to go on one of those submarine tours of ancient Manhattan, but we had only one free day, and Topaz was obsessed with the Second American Civil War for some reason, so she dragged us around to all these memorials...”

“Couldn’t you have each gone off on your own?”

She gave him a look meant to convey that this was a silly question, and then she realized maybe it wasn’t a silly question, because she didn’t know how to explain the answer to Byerly. They _could_ have. It just wasn’t what they _did_.

He knocked back another shot of cactus-pear brandy – one of several bizarre and disgusting Barrayaran intoxicants they’d been sampling – and offered her a refill, which she declined. Then he said, “I miss my sister terribly, too. Every minute of every day.”

Rish looked at him, startled; the _too_ suggested he’d registered something she hadn’t actually said in so many words, and he’d never spoken about his sister before. She remembered that he’d seemed _distinctly_ uncomfortable when Ivan had brought up the topic.

“I didn’t realize that you, uh, got along with her.”

“I do. We were very close, growing up, you know, the way children tend to be close in families with highly unsatisfactory parents. You _look after_ each other, or at least I always tried to look after her, the way Donna had looked after me. Our mother – well, I think in retrospect she may have had some, um, mental health issues even then – she hasn’t really communicated with _anybody_ for at least a decade – but at any rate, she was one of those people who never really wanted children, and shouldn’t have been obligated to have them in a society run along rational principles.”

She realized, suddenly, that he was very drunk, although a very-drunk person _shouldn’t_ have been able to produce the sentence he’d just uttered. He sounded like a professor lecturing on some topic that didn’t affect him in the least: the words carefully separated, the diction even more formal than usual, but without the habitual gloss of irony.

“And your father?”

“ _He_ just shouldn’t have had a _son_. Or at least, not the wrong sort of son. I’ve not spoken to him in eighteen years, and I wouldn’t have done it then if I hadn’t been absolutely desperate for rent money at the time.” He swallowed some more brandy. “He gave me a thousand marks and told me to get out of his sight. I decided then and there that my self-respect wasn’t worth a lousy thousand marks, handed it off to the first homeless person I saw, and got kicked out of my flat at the end of the month anyway. Best thing I’ve ever done.”

“You haven’t said ... exactly why you broke with him in the first place,” said Rish cautiously.

“Oh, right. That’s sort of an important part of the story, isn’t it?” He refilled his glass and said, after a moment, “You know, nobody ever believes this, but I really despise gossip.”

“But –” said Rish, and then decided not to say anything more.

“One can have strong opinions about which end of a plasma arc one would prefer to be on,” he explained, in that same clinical tone of voice, “without necessarily having any particular fondness for plasma arcs.”

Another sip; another pause. She waited.

“One of the things you need to know about traditional social mores on this planet,” he went on, “is that officially, _nobody_ is supposed to be having sex outside of marriage. Unofficially, it’s accepted that young men are going to sow their wild oats, and that older, married men are allowed an affair or two on the side, as long as they’re discreet about it. Only men, you understand. And only with women.”

She blinked, puzzled; she’d figured out most of this already, but she couldn’t work out what it had to do with anything.

“And one of the things about having a sexual code that’s based on very rigid rules is that people just sort of _assume_ that if you’re breaking the rules one way, there’s nothing to stop you from breaking them all the other ways as well. Distinctions based on _ethics_ and _consent_ don’t come into it.”

Some light was starting to filter in; she recalled that he seemed to be borderline- _allergic_ to certain sexual practices that her Betan tutors would have regarded as perfectly fine, as long as all parties were consenting. “By, are you saying you’ve been sexually assaulted? Or molested? Something like that?”

It was his turn to blink. “No, actually. Something much more bizarre. Other way round. Well, not exactly the other way around, because that would imply that I’d actually _done_ it, but near enough.”

“Done what?”

“Molested my little sister. I don’t know who started the rumor, but at any rate, my da believed it. She denied it, I denied it, he refused to hear either one of us. Kicked me out of the house, pretty much. And at that point, I decided I’d had _enough_ of it – enough of my parents, enough of school, enough of little western hick towns where everyone’s always up in everyone else’s _business_. So I left. Never regretted it. I missed Julia, but that was all.”

“My God, By. I’m sorry.”

“It’s all right,” he said. “It was a long time ago.” And then, “No, it isn’t all right. It’s never been all right, and I think I’ve always been angrier at my father for believing that rumor than at whoever made it up in the first place. It makes you feel _filthy_ , you know, knowing that someone has looked at you and seen something that ugly and _believed_ it. You can’t wash it off, and you feel like you’ve always got to be careful after that, you’re always second-guessing yourself and wondering how things will look to other people.” He lay down on the couch, looked up at the ceiling, and added, in a mildly surprised tone of voice, “Do you know, I haven’t been alone with Julia in more than twenty years.” And then, before Rish could say anything at all, he closed his eyes and went completely limp.

* * *

Byerly blinked his eyes open, and immediately rolled over and buried his face in the cushions. The morning sunlight was _painful_.

Rish gave him a shoulder-rub, and, when he finally rolled over again, touched him on the cheek. Her hands were gentle and cool: perfect nurse’s hands, he thought. “Prole-etiquette morning?”

“ _Definitely_ ,” he said. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d been this hung over, but then, he didn’t really get _drunk_ any more except in the company of people he absolutely trusted, and there were very few of those. Dono, Alain, Julia, maybe Ivan at a pinch. And now, apparently, Rish.

“Tea or coffee?”

“Both, please. And some juice, if there’s any in the fridge.” Fluids would help, if he could keep them down. He wondered what had possessed him to fall asleep without drinking his usual glass of water. For that matter, what was he doing here on the living room couch? “I didn’t – I didn’t _pass out_ , did I?”

“You did, wild-caught. You were absolutely blacked-out drunk.”

“Shit. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to make you deal with that.” He noticed, looking around the room, that Rish had moved the trash basket next to the couch. Thoughtful of her. Also dead embarrassing, although at least it seemed that he hadn’t actually _needed_ it.

“No problem. _I_ got your bed to myself. It was very comfortable.” Rish started humming in an annoyingly cheerful way, and handed him a glass of juice and a couple of painkillers. “Tea should be ready in a few minutes. You’re not in the least an obnoxious drunk, by the way, in case that’s what you’re worried about.”

“No.” He washed down the painkillers and hoped they wouldn’t take too long to kick in. “I know I’m not. I tend to be more – confessional.”

She sat down on the edge of the couch. “ _Confessional_ implies that you’ve done something _wrong_ , and – you haven’t. Not according to anything you told me last night, anyway.”

“I suppose I gave you the entire family history?” He _hoped_ he had, anyway, because if he hadn’t, he’d have to get drunk _again_ , and he was getting too old to do that every night of the week.

“Yes.” She ruffled his hair a bit – _casual_ ruffling, he hoped, the sort of thing you did to a partner who was a bit under the weather, not one who was permanently-damaged goods.

“Did you ... Can I ... Is there anything else you’d like to ask me? As long as we’ve been talking about ... things?”

“Not really. Your answers wouldn’t be half as interesting when you’re sober, anyway.”

“ _In vino veritas_. It’s a useful little trick, if you need to question somebody and you haven’t got any fast-penta.”

“I’ll have to remember that.” She looked like _Rish_ again, shrewd and sharp-edged and a little mischievous, and he thought, with relief, that everything between them was going to be _just fine_. Maybe he’d even try talking about it while sober, sometime.

* * *

He went to pick her up at Ivan’s that afternoon, in the mood for another quiet evening at home. Takeaway, he thought, and a good holovid version of _Hamlet_ , and _not_ too much drinking this time.

Ivan caught up with him in the hallway and said, “About Rish. You’re not making her, like, fall in love with you or anything, are you?”

Byerly stared at him. Apparently, Ivan was under the impression that it was _possible_ , and maybe even _easy_ , to make people fall in love with you. Maybe if you were Ivan, it really _was_ that easy.

“Because you could be reassigned or something, and have to drop her. And I don’t want to be stuck in a flat full of weeping, angry women, with no male to take it out on but me.”

Ivan didn’t seem to be even slightly concerned about the possibility that _Rish_ might be making _Byerly_ fall in love with _her_. Maybe he could threaten to go and weep and be angry all over Ivan’s flat, except he didn’t think _that_ would get him any sympathy from Ivan either. Really, being _male_ was _such_ an unfair deal.

Ivan’s next idea was that By ought to invite Rish to move in with him, which didn’t sound like a half-bad idea, except he wasn’t sure how you broached the topic with a woman who wasn’t planning to stay on-planet.

“You could make her happy just by getting her off my couch,” Ivan suggested.

_Make her happy?_ Good Lord, no, he couldn’t do that, and it came to him, suddenly, that he desperately wanted to. He tried to explain to Ivan what he had seen when he watched the vids of the Jewels together, but somehow it came out as “Rish with the Jewels looks like a woman with a beating heart. Rish in exile looks like ... a woman with a muscle in her chest that pumps blood.”

Ivan was not only prosaic in himself, but the cause that prose was in other men.

* * *

But when Ivan opened the door of his flat, they found _poetry in motion_ : a whirl of tumbling, gyrating bodies, a chime of bells, a swift rush of life and joy. It took him a moment to be sure that there really were only two dancers, and that Rish was the one creating ninety percent of the momentum.

She caught his eye, mid-spin, and flashed him a genuine smile, and then flipped into a dizzying sequence of cartwheels.

Too soon, it was over; Rish dashed off to the shower, and while he was trying to think through what he had just seen, Ivan cut into his reverie with a rather grumpy, “Are you going to help us put the furniture back in place, or _not?_ ”

“I was sort of thinking not. I mean, it isn’t my furniture, and I wasn’t the one who moved it.”

“That was what’s known as a _rhetorical question_ , By.”

“Oh, _fine_.” He grabbed one end of the couch and tugged it back into place, ignoring the fact that Ivan seemed to be contemplating it _meaningfully_. It was entirely possible that he and Rish _would_ end up as domestic partners – the idea was starting to sound rather appealing – but it was jolly well going to be on his own timeline, and _not_ because Ivan started dropping hints.

* * *

“That was ... extraordinary,” he said, once they were alone together. “I know it wasn’t meant for me, but – thank you for letting me watch.”

“You should have seen us when there were six of us,” she said sadly. “Well – you’ve seen the vids, so you have some idea. It was sweet of Tej to try, but it’s not the same. I don’t think I’ll be doing it again.”

“You’re an _artist_. An incredible, glorious, gifted one. You must find some way to let that art live, because it would be _wrong_ to kill it.”

She looked at him and smiled, but it was the sort of frosty, inward smile that always made him feel like he’d prefer tears. “Tell me something, By. You’ve said you were in plays at school. Did you ever think of becoming an actor, professionally?”

That was _astute_. He wondered if Dono had said anything to her, or if she’d simply observed and guessed. “I’ve ... sometimes thought that I might have liked it, if things had been different. But I didn’t have the right sort of connections, and there wasn’t any money for drama school, and if there _had_ been any money my father would have been the one in control of it, and quite apart from the fact that he didn’t like to spend money on _anything_ , he was _very much_ against everything that ... didn’t fit within the narrow boundaries of a particular sort of masculinity. So it was never really an option, and I knew it wasn’t an option and didn’t spend a lot of time thinking about it.”

“There you are. Being gifted isn’t enough. Art needs to be among the right _people_ to live.”

“Oh, my dear. I wish you may find yourself among the right people once again.”

Later (a matter of _hours_ later), he would think of this as one of those folk-tale wishes that shower the wisher in unintended consequences.


	19. Family and Other Complications

The call came when they were drifting off to sleep in a pleasant state of post-coital languor. Rish buried her head under the pillows; Byerly muttered a curse and answered it, sleepily.

“This is Lieutenant Zumboti,” said the caller.

 _Who the blazes is Lieutenant Zumboti?_ Byerly wondered, and blinked at the vid plate until it came into focus. Ah. He recognized the young ImpSec officer by sight, though not by name.

“We’ve got a group of people being detained by customs and immigration at the commercial shuttleport. It looks as though they may be refugees from House Cordonah, or else a very clever group of bounty hunters _impersonating_ refugees from House Cordonah. Is your girl with you, and would she be able to tell the difference?”

“ _Yes!_ ” said Rish, who had already vaulted out of bed and started to pull on her clothes.

“Good,” said Lieutenant Zumboti. “Get her down to the shuttleport, pronto.”

“Does Ivan – Does Captain Vorpatril know about this?”

“He’s been called.”

* * *

Ivan and Tej were already at the shuttleport when they arrived, after a sprint to the bubble-tube and a mad dash through the corridors connecting the tube stop to the port. Things happened very quickly after that; Rish and Tej confirmed that the people on the video monitors were their family, and then they were all escorted into the waiting room where the Arquas were being held in not-quite-detention. And _then_ the entire family seemed to explode, crying and hugging and talking all at the same time.

Instinctively, Byerly took up an inconspicuous spot against the wall and began to observe the social dynamics among the family. _There’s something special between Rish and the Baronne, just as there is between Tej and the Baron ... and those must be Emerald and Pearl. They look so happy – so does Rish – but where are the others? Is that young man their brother, Onyx-called-Jet? He doesn’t look like he does in the vids – oh, I see, he’s had work done on his appearance, the same sort of thing Rish said would be repugnant to her – she’s a little shocked. Have Ruby and Topaz had it done too? No, those two stunningly beautiful women must be the other two sisters, Star and Pidge – Ruby and Topaz aren’t here, and they’re all conscious of it. And that must be their grandmother, the haut-lady-who-was ..._ He reached this conclusion less from the woman’s apparent age than from the way the others interacted with her. Fortunately, Ivan had actually been to Cetaganda and seemed to know the protocol for greeting a demoted haut-lady. Or maybe he was making it up. Byerly wouldn’t have had a clue.

He studied the group for potential allies, and he found one in a dark-haired young man who could easily have passed for Barrayaran. He had joined in the group hugs at first – he seemed to be particularly close to Tej – but by now he was standing a little aloof, as if slightly amused at all the fuss. Byerly caught his eyes and offered him a friendly smile; he smiled back, although there was definitely an element of _sizing up_ in the look he was giving. He was wearing casual Escobaran-style clothing, like Jet, only he seemed more accustomed to it than Jet did. This must be the middle brother, then, the doctor. Erik, the heir, was absent. Dead, or detained?

He was somewhat taken aback when Rish introduced him as an _um-friend_ , and then downgraded him to _well, friendly_. She didn’t exactly step in while the rest of the family members engaged in frank critique, either. Well. He supposed it was normal to value your family over your boyfriend of one month – if you liked your family, and if _one month_ didn’t represent a record-length relationship for you – but it would have been nice to get _some_ sort of acknowledgment that he meant something to her.

Before they left – in Ivan’s groundcar, since Ivan had tossed him the keys and upgraded to a rental vehicle large enough to hold the rest of the family – Lieutenant Zumboti slipped him an envelope of tiny listening devices, which lay in the pocket of his overcoat, feeling impossibly heavy. No verbal instructions were given; none were needed.

* * *

Byerly said nothing at all for the first few minutes of their drive, and Rish wondered what he had made of her family. When he finally spoke, he said, rather petulantly, “Your sister doesn’t have any _manners_.”

“Which one? Star? Yeah, she can be a bit ... high-handed. But don’t worry, _nobody_ takes her opinions about men seriously. If you’d ever met her ex-husband, you’d know why.”

“What was he like?”

“Gengineered body-builder. Nothing between the ears.”

“Have any of your other sibs been married? Besides Tej, I mean?”

“No. Pidge came close, once or twice, but it was more House politics than anything real.”

“Do any of the other Jewels have ... anyone serious?”

“You seem awfully interested in my family’s personal lives, Mr. I-Really-Hate-Gossip.”

“It’s only gossip if it’s from an unreliable source,” said Byerly, with an air of virtue that did not suit him at all. “Otherwise, it’s just _making informational inquiries_.”

“No, they don’t. We haven’t had a _lifestyle_ that lends itself to anything very serious or permanent. Casual flings are another story, of course.” (The Jewels, as it happened, had a very long tradition of swapping their casual lovers among themselves. She wasn’t quite sure how to broach this subject with Byerly, nor, for that matter, was she quite sure about how she felt about it herself any more.)

“So. I ... hope this doesn’t change things between us. Well, I realize that of course it does. What I mean, I guess, is ... I know we haven’t got much more time together, and I don’t want to waste that time on ... things that don’t matter. So I was thinking maybe we should agree not to _let_ them matter.”

“All right,” said Rish, since it seemed impolite to point out that, as far as she was concerned, _he_ had just become one of the _things that didn’t matter_. Her family was alive; that mattered. Topaz was the Prestenes’ captive; that mattered more.

* * *

His hands trembled a little at her throat as he kissed her goodbye. _I’m sorry, love, I don’t want to do this, but I must ..._

The hands never lied. Everything _else_ about the man lied. Rish located the bug under her collar, blew a faux-cheerful kiss at it, and tossed it down the garbage disposal.

* * *

Byerly went directly to Lady Alys’s flat after saying goodbye to Rish. He did his best to swallow the generous breakfast that her cook put in front of him, though he wasn’t very hungry. At any rate, there was plenty of coffee, and he was grateful for that.

He made a somewhat incoherent report of the night’s events to Lady Alys and Simon Illyan, and then, mercifully, the pair of them exchanged a look, and Illyan left the room. He’d never felt _comfortable_ speaking his mind in front of Illyan, even a retired and de-memory-chipped Illyan.

“Tell me what they are like, as _people_ ,” said Lady Alys.

“Intense. _Angry_ about what’s happened to them. And in their own minds, they’re still a Great House. With the exception of Amiri, and _maybe_ the youngest son as well, none of them is going to accept a change of identity and retirement to a quiet corner of the galaxy. They’re out for double-or-nothing.”

“Hmm,” said Lady Alys. “That ... complicates matters. And how does Rish feel about all of this?”

“She’s thrilled. I don’t see her ever parting from her family again, not by her choice.”

“I see.” She gave him a searching look, which he tried to duck by making his expression as bland as possible. “And Tej?”

“Also thrilled, but ... I think her feelings might be a bit more complicated. I don’t get the impression that she’s – quite on the same wavelength as the rest of them.”

“Hmm,” Lady Alys said again. Her face was unreadable.

“Have I got new instructions?”

“Just keep an eye on them for now. All of them, but, I should think, _especially_ Baron and Baronne Cordonah and Tej’s two full sisters.”

“I’ll just clone myself, shall I? Nine of me would be about right for the job – no, ten. Eleven if you count Tej, which I suppose we have to, now.”

“It isn’t that bad,” said Lady Alys. “Simon and I will help you. And so will Ivan.”

This wasn’t the first time she’d casually volunteered Ivan’s services; Byerly always wondered what Ivan would say if he could hear her. “That makes four people to watch eleven. And one of them’s head-over-heels with one of our surveillance subjects.” ( _Maybe two of them_ , corrected a traitorous voice in the back of his head.) “Or hadn’t you noticed?”

“Ivan,” said Lady Alys, “is _high Vor_. As are you. And I assure you, my son knows exactly what that means, even if _you_ have temporarily forgotten.”

 _I haven’t forgotten, I’m just not sure I believe in it_ , Byerly thought, _and besides, I’ve seen what Ivan is like when his mother isn’t watching, which is one thing you’ll never get to see._ Of course, he knew better than to say any of this out loud.

“Besides, they’ll need a vehicle and someone who can drive it if they’re going to go anywhere, and the only drivers available are you and Ivan.”

“And Tej. She’s got a license, now. And Amiri can probably drive, he’s lived on Escobar for years. For all I know, Star and Pidge can, since Rish says they’ve both studied at galactic universities, and I’m sure the Baron has all sorts of skills we don’t know about. About the only ones I’m sure _can’t_ drive are Rish and the rest of the Jewels.”

“Well, nobody except Tej has a Barrayaran license, and the hotel concierge can tip off the municipal guards to stop any of the others. I’ll see that he has orders.”

“Yes, I’m sure a Jacksonian baron would cooperate with a traffic stop by the municipal guards. Very law-abiding people, they are.” Byerly shut his eyes, envisioning the entire Arqua clan in a high-speed chase and shootout with the guards. “What could possibly go wrong?”

“You’re tired,” said Lady Alys. “You always get _excessively_ sarcastic when you’re tired. Go home and get some sleep while you have the chance. If you stop by the Arquas’ hotel at five o’clock, that should be time enough to give them a quick walking tour and then bring them here for dinner. The concierge will call you if there are any developments before that.”

“Dinner?”

“I told you I’d help. Besides, it’s the _proper_ thing to do.”

* * *

“I can understand why Tej might have felt the need to contract marriage with a Barrayaran,” said the Baronne, “as distasteful as the situation may be, but what I _cannot_ understand is why _you_ found it advisable to take up with one.”

“Especially _that_ one,” sniffed Star.

“ _I_ liked him,” said Pearl. “Don’t you think his eyes are _dreamy?_ ”

Everyone else ignored her.

Rish thought that she was glad, after all, that he’d betrayed her first; it made the thing that she must do easier. “He’s an intelligence agent for Barrayaran Imperial Security,” she said, “and _that_ ought to tell you all you need to know about why I’m with him.”

 _That_ got everyone’s attention. Star was the first one to recover enough to speak. “ _Seriously?_ They must have really low recruiting standards.”

“ _Never_ judge by appearances,” admonished the Baron. “The one who caused so much trouble for House Ryoval didn’t look the part either, by all accounts.” He turned to Rish and said, “Tell me what this man is like.”

“Curious as a cat. Persistent. Clever, but not always as clever as he thinks he is. A good liar, and a very good actor. Vain, especially where his intelligence is concerned. Arrogant. He pretends to be lazy, but he definitely isn’t, and he hates following rules.”

None of this was false, she reflected, but it left a lot out. But this was no occasion to say _he loves beautiful things and understands why they matter_ , or _nothing makes him angrier than injustice_ , or _he doesn’t usually let people get very close to him, but he let me._

“Is he in love with you?” asked the Baron.

“He’s not the sentimental type,” said Rish, although this wasn’t exactly an answer to the question. “He tried to bug my clothes when he kissed me goodbye this morning. The rest of you should be checking to make sure he doesn’t do it to you.”

“Is he controllable?”

 _About as controllable as a raging blizzard_ , she thought. “He’s ... distractable. And he’s just one man.”

“That is a point,” said the Baronne. “I suppose if anything were to happen to him, we’d be swarmed with _more_ of them. And he’s wild-caught. He won’t be able to go without food or rest for long.”

 _Oh, you’d be surprised_ , Rish thought, although her mother was sort of right; if you set out to design the perfect spy, you wouldn’t come up with Byerly.

“What are his angles?” asked the Baron. “Money? He looks as if he’s got expensive tastes.”

“Not that expensive,” said Rish, although she wasn’t absolutely sure this was true. “And he gets paid enough to indulge them.”

“Power?”

She shook her head.

“Well, what does he want that he hasn’t got?”

Rish didn’t even need to think about it. “ _Parents_.”

The Baron, unusually for him, looked taken aback. “Well. That’s ... unusual. Perhaps not absolutely impossible if we had more time, but not much use under the circumstances.”

* * *

After their parents had disappeared into one of the bedrooms, Pidge pulled her into the hotel suite’s luxuriously appointed bathroom and shut the door. “Don’t worry, little sister,” she said, and Rish had just enough time to realize how much she had missed being someone’s little sister, when Pidge went on, “We’ll find a way to massacre them all.”

“What? Massacre _who?_ ”

Pidge’s mouth was grim. “All the men who thought they could make whores of us without any consequences.”

“Pidge –” Rish didn’t know what to say. “I’m so sorry. But – he’s never – It hasn’t been like that. Not for me.”

“Oh, Rish, sweetling, you don’t have to be brave any more. It’s just us.”

“I’m not being brave. It really and truly wasn’t _like_ that. And I don’t want By harmed if there’s any way to avoid it.”

Pidge looked sharply at her, as if she were suspecting Rish of having been brainwashed, and then shrugged. “Fine. Suit yourself. But as soon as we get the House back, we’re taking out the others. _Starting_ with that perv who’s probably stroking Grandmama’s hair with one hand and _masturbating_ with the other at this very moment.”

Rish flinched at the image, and assented heartily. Undoubtedly, their Betan tutors would have claimed that the auctioning-off of Grandmama’s hair was perfectly ethical, since nobody was harmed and all parties had consented to the transaction; but there were things the Betans would never understand.

* * *

Most of the family had drifted off to bed by midday, suffering from extreme jump-lag, except Jet, who was still buoyed up by youthful energy.

“What have you _done_ to your beautiful _body?_ ” Rish asked, once they were alone on the hotel balcony.

“It’s _all right_ , Rish, I don’t mind it. Some of it’s temporary, and I’ve often thought it would be interesting to make a change.”

“A _change?_ ” Pursuing the topic was cruel, she knew, when he was putting up such a brave front, but she couldn’t stop herself, because it was only with Jet that she _could_ give voice to all the grief and anger that she couldn’t express before the Baronne or Grandmama. “Do you think a – a _unicorn_ would ever choose to change to become a _horse?_ ”

“I couldn’t say,” said Jet, his lips twitching, “not being personally acquainted with any unicorns. But I imagine that if one were to find himself on an entire planet of horses, he might see some advantages to blending in.”

 _I didn’t choose to blend in_ , she thought. _I would never have sacrificed my beauty, nor spurned the Baronne’s gift ..._ But, of course, Jet might have believed their mother was alive while she had been thinking of herself as a living memorial ... There were, she supposed, arguments for pragmatism, and this was no time to argue, anyway.

 _Byerly_ had been _born_ on a planet of horses, she realized, and _he_ would have understood why you didn’t turn yourself into one no matter what it cost you. She missed him acutely. It seemed all wrong that they were on different sides now.

* * *

Byerly didn’t realize, at first, just how bad things were about to get. The message Rish left when she located his first listening device (which she did almost at once, and he found that he wasn’t sorry) sounded almost playful, as if his spying on her were a mutually agreed-upon game. He’d been _hoping_ she’d take it in that spirit. After all, she was _Jacksonian_.

They had no time for private conversation that evening; Rish was always in the middle of a pack of siblings. Lady Alys had commandeered a driver and a deluxe-model groundcar – sort of a cross between a mini-bus and a limousine – and By was in charge of herding the family onto it.

Pearl was so jump-lagged that she walked straight into a float-bike rack; her exquisitely fair skin blossomed a fine crop of bruises, which she insisted on showing off to everyone. Jet declined the motion-sickness pills Rish had been handing out, and then spent most of the journey leaning out of the window at an alarming angle and trying not to throw up. Em seemed unable to restrain herself from experimenting with the bus, pushing every button and pulling every handle in sight; whether accidentally or on purpose, she managed to disable the listening device By had planted in the heating vent. Pidge and Star merely grumbled about everything. Amiri said, “Welcome to our family circle – circus – whatever,” and gave By a friendly roll of the eyes.

After dinner, Lady Alys closeted herself with the Baronne and the haut Moira. Despite his best efforts – and ordinarily, he was _very good_ at charming older women and making himself a party to their gossip sessions – they shut him firmly out. Instead, he and Ivan ended up chatting with Pidge, who was all too obviously trying to work out Simon Illyan’s angles and calculate how he could be corrupted. _Yeah, good luck with that..._

* * *

Ivan called him on the following morning when he was on the way out the door; Jet had drafted him as a tour guide, and expressed a wish to see the municipal stadium. Byerly had decided not to mention that his great-uncle was the one responsible for _that_ particular monstrosity.

“Just so you know,” said Ivan, “the whole family knows what you do for a living. It was your girlfriend who spilled the beans.”

“How’d you find out?”

“Asked them.”

Well, that was a silly question; expecting Ivan to be _indirect_ about anything was like expecting an elephant to be stealthy. “Damn. Well, at least they don’t know about your mother. At least I _think_ they don’t. Could you try to find that out?”

“How? I can’t really ask them, since Tej and Rish aren’t supposed to know about my mother either.”

“Ivan, darling, it’s possible to find out if people know things without asking them directly. Remind me to introduce you sometime to the concept of _subtlety._ ”

“Would that be the thing you were doing on Komarr, when you told them all about how you were a super-secret deep-cover agent two minutes after you met them?”

God, Ivan was infuriating sometimes, _especially_ when he was in the right. “No, that was what’s known as honesty. The foundation for every healthy relationship, and all that.”

“In _that_ case – I think you and your girlfriend have some things to talk about. Preferably without involving me.”

* * *

It became apparent, over the next couple of days, that the whole family were doing their best to divert, distract, and confound him. There were _always_ two or three of them who managed not to be watched at any given time, and he hardly got a word alone with Rish, who seemed to be avoiding him. At least the conversations he had with them were occasionally enlightening about their world-view, though never about their immediate plans.

“I thought,” remarked Moira, during one of his many outings with various members of the family, “that bridge had been destroyed by the Cetagandans.”

“It was, haut,” said By. Lady Alys had briefed him on the correct way to behave around Moira, which involved pretending that she was still a haut-lady. “We built it back up again. Stone by stone. It took twenty years.”

“I do not see why you would bother,” Moira replied. “It is an _exceptionally_ ugly bridge. That was why it was marked for destruction in the first place.”

He felt his hands tightening on the steering grip of the rental vehicle, and he didn’t even know _why_ , because he was inclined to share Moira’s opinion of the bridge. (In his younger days, he’d even been in the habit of professing admiration for Cetagandan aesthetics, mostly because it was a good way to give men of his father’s generation apoplexy.) “Perhaps, haut, that is _why_ we felt it important to build it back the same way as before.”

“Well,” Moira sniffed, “at _least_ they should have painted the second one a better color.”

He acknowledged that the color left something to be desired.

* * *

When he did, at last, find himself in bed with Rish, it wasn’t as good as he remembered. He kept having the feeling that they were hustling each other rather than making love, and that he’d really prefer sleep to sex right now. But he went on, secure in the knowledge that his body would cooperate; it always did.

He spent some time making sure that she was relaxed and in a very good mood; unfortunately, it was physically impossible to ask questions _while_ you were doing that. Regretfully, he declined an offer of the sort of reciprocity that would have rendered it impossible for her to _answer_ questions for a while.

“What’s going on with your family?” he murmured, when he judged her to be sufficiently receptive.

She stiffened. “What do you mean, what’s going on with them?”

“I mean, they seem to be working together to give me the runaround. To what end?”

She rolled off of him in one smooth motion, leaving him in a state of _particularly agonizing_ unfulfillment. “I don’t have sex with people who use it as _fast-penta_.”

“I was just _making conversation_.”

“Like hell you were. If _that_ was normal pillow-talk, then I’m the empress of Cetaganda.” She sat on the edge of the bed and began to dress. “I’m going back to Ivan’s.”

“Let me walk with you,” he said, beginning to pull on his own clothes. “It’s late.”

“I’ll be all right.”

“Let me rephrase that. I _insist_ on walking with you.”

“And I insist that you _don’t_.”

“You don’t get to insist. It’s a free planet, and if I decide I feel like taking a stroll to my good friend Ivan’s at two o’clock in the morning, _what do you think you’re going to do about it?_ ”

Actually, she could have done something about it, because his stunner was in his coat pocket in the living room, and hers was strapped underneath the skirt she’d already put on, but ... good, they weren’t going to be _that_ uncivilized. Relationships, he reflected, could generally survive the primary-school-argument level of uncivilized, but getting down to _thug_ level tended to put a permanent crimp in things.


	20. Falling Apart

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The dialogue in Ivan's car is taken directly from _Captain Vorpatril's Alliance_. Again, I've tried to keep this sort of thing to a bare minimum.
> 
> Since the characters are very much not in a happy place right now, I thought I'd toss up a bonus fluffy drabble, as assurance that things will get better: [Cheating](http://archiveofourown.org/works/5157050).

Because he was _constitutionally_ incapable of letting things go, and because _she_ refused to acknowledge that he was only acting out of duty, they argued on and off for the next few days – in between ferrying her relatives from place to place, and making sure that they didn’t walk out into traffic. Oddly, they still made a perfectly effective team in that respect, although everything else had gone terribly wrong between them. Rish positively refused to accept that his duty as a subject _required_ him to gather and pass on information about her family. He argued that she’d proven he _couldn’t_ trust her, since she had told her parents about his profession and then abetted her family’s plans to give him the runaround. She countered that he’d broken their implicit contract _first_ , by trying to bug their conversations.

“It isn’t the same,” he protested.

“Why isn’t it the same?”

“Because I had to do it. I was under orders.”

“So did I have to tell them about you. They’re my _family_. You’re not.”

“But I’m working for a legitimate authority, and not a bunch of _brigands!_ ”

“Do you think that Emperor of yours is anything but the biggest brigand of them all? I mean sure, planetary governments like to dress it up with a fancy name, but in the end, they all just take what they want. Ask the Komarrans.”

He debated with himself, afterwards, whether it was necessary to report that Rish had called the Emperor a brigand and expressed sympathy for Komarran independence, and decided that it was _not_.

* * *

“Sonic mapping?” asked Rish, perplexed.

“It should work,” said Star. “According to my calculations...”

As Rish did not possess a degree in engineering, she found Star’s calculations impenetrable, but the Baron was nodding along as if they made perfect sense to him. _Her_ part, it seemed, was to create a new dance routine for the Jewels that incorporated some plausible-looking leaps for Jet.

She looked a little dubiously at her youngest brother; the body-mods had left him burlier than was ideal for a dancer, although Star seemed to think the added heft would actually be useful for what she was planning.

It would have to be a dance for four, she decided with a sigh; she couldn’t trust Tej to be good enough to carry off a routine this complicated, and her other evensisters had never learned at all. (Star and Pidge had _never_ liked doing things they weren’t going to be the best at.) Besides, asking someone else to take Ruby and Topaz’s parts would have felt _wrong_.

With her mind full of lost things, she turned to Barrayaran dance without thinking consciously about it. As she began to work out the choreography, she found her mind filled with associations. That first, revelatory night at the theater, when she’d discovered that Barrayar had a _culture_. The brightly colored drinks and sultry atmosphere of the Seven Deadly Sins club. The rare moments when she’d managed to coax By out on the dance floor at parties. Pretty much all of her memories of Barrayar were memories of By.

She put those thoughts aside and resolutely applied herself to her task, which was – from a strictly professional point of view – an interesting problem indeed.

* * *

She was _up to something_ , that much was obvious. She spent hours sequestered in her family’s hotel suite, and met all of his questions with evasions. He tried planting more listening devices, but the family managed to jam or dispose of all of them, so the only effect they had was to make her furious. He suggested that an honest answer to some of his questions would eliminate the necessity for more underhanded means, but that didn’t seem to help either.

“You have a lot of nerve telling _me_ to be honest with you when your entire _personality_ is fake.”

“My _entire_ personality isn’t fake,” he protested, “only the _unpleasant_ parts are.”

Miraculously, this drew a smile from her, and he thought for a moment that things were going to get better. But then she said, “You don’t trust anybody. I think that’s plenty _unpleasant_.”

“I _do_ ,” he protested. “I trusted you enough to tell me about the thing that’s hurt me the most in my _life!_ But that was personal. This is _for the Imperium_.”

“Always the Imperium,” said Rish. “You’re like ... like what’s-his-name in that play we watched the other night. Rosencrantz. You soak up information like a sponge, and then you let them _mouth_ you and suck you dry. Eww.”

She’d _gotten_ to him, but he wasn’t going to let her have the satisfaction of seeing it. “At _least_ , my dear,” he said in the most irritatingly patronizing tone he could manage, “I seem to have taught you to have a taste for _something_ other than Komarran serial drama vids.”

She rolled her eyes. “ _Anyway_ , I don’t think you’ve got much business lecturing people about honesty.”

“I was always honest with _you_ ,” he protested. “When have I ever lied to you or deceived you?”

“How about when you treated me as your girlfriend? As your _colleague_ , even? And you let me think of myself that way, when you knew all along I was just your _assignment_.”

With a twist in his gut, he realized there wasn’t much he could say to that. He didn’t usually think of it as _betrayal_. Or at any rate, it had been years since he’d thought of it that way.

* * *

What business did he have, Rish wondered, going around looking _hurt?_ She tried to tell herself he was just being manipulative, but she knew it was real, since he was clearly trying to conceal it rather than project it. Maybe it was another facet of the wild-caught fragility that had been on her mind ever since Lex Vorlynn’s party. It occurred to her that she could, at least, do something about one aspect of that.

“Amiri?” she said, having at last caught her brother alone, reading on the hotel balcony. “Have you got a minute? I need to talk to you about By.”

“What’s the matter?” asked Amiri absently. “Do you need someone else to fill up his dance card tomorrow? I thought he was supposed to be taking Star and Jet to the War Museum, and then meeting our parents for lunch, and then going shopping with Pidge while you and the Jewels have your ... practice.”

“No, not about _that_. Other stuff. Serious stuff.”

“Ah,” said Amiri, setting his notebook aside and looking straight at her. “Reconsidering your decision to retreat into the family fold, now that they’ve started giving you crap about taking up with an enemy spy? Don’t worry, it’s not as scary on the outside as it looks. You’re both very welcome to join me on Escobar, and for what it’s worth, _I_ like him.”

“Not that either,” said Rish.

She explained, and by the time she had finished, Amiri was looking grave. “All right, sis. I’ll do what I can. But – it’s his choice to make, and you’re going to need to respect that.”

He went into the suite, leaving his notebook on the balcony. “You forgot this,” said Rish.

“Oh yeah,” said Amiri. “Thanks, wouldn’t want to lose that, it’s got lots of trade secrets.” But he made no move to retrieve it.

“What kind of trade secrets?”

“Well, right now my lab’s working on the Fountain of Eternal Late-Middle-Age.”

“That doesn’t sound very appealing.”

“Well,” said Amiri, catching her eye, “that depends on who you ask, doesn’t it?”

So Rish dutifully set about taking images of all the pages, because you didn’t have to be a genius medical researcher to know that _Baron Fell_ would find the Fountain of Eternal Late-Middle-Age very interesting indeed, and they would need something _big_ to sell him, something the Prestenes couldn’t offer. Amiri, however he felt about Jackson’s Whole and the House, understood what was due to _family_.

* * *

After yet another blow-up fight with Rish, Byerly found himself alone with Ivan – who suddenly spilled an extraordinary theory concerning Simon Illyan making private bargains with Shiv Arqua, and a cache of buried Cetagandan treasure underneath Cockroach Central. There seemed to be nothing for it except to _ask Illyan_ , a terrifying prospect, but one that By was willing to undertake as long as he had Ivan along to ask all the dumb-amateur questions for him. Not that Ivan was always _consistent_ about playing dumb, by any means.

“Dinner first,” said Ivan. “I’ve gone to the trouble of _cooking_ it, and there isn’t anyone around to eat it except you.”

He protested that he wasn’t hungry at all – which was true, since his eleven-way surveillance assignment had required him to hit his stash of creme de meth, and that stuff killed the appetite. Ivan, however, insisted, so they sat down to what would have been an excellent roast if it hadn’t been left in the oven two hours longer than necessary. He took small bites, and washed them down with as much wine as possible.

“Are you high?” Ivan finally asked. Evidently his twitchiness and difficulty in swallowing his food were arousing some suspicions.

“Not _high_ exactly. I’ve had a shot or two of creme de meth. That doesn’t really _count_ as drugs, you keep a perfectly clear head. It’s no different from an espresso, or at any rate fifteen or twenty espressos. Apart from being illegal.” Ivan looked unconvinced, so By added, “Oh, come now, half the _government_ is sustaining itself on creme de meth at any given time. That probably includes your cousin the Lord Auditor, by the way.”

“Like hell it does. _Nobody_ would be irresponsible enough to sell amphetamines to Miles.”

“Um. I’m not sure the purveyors of this stuff are exactly noted for their sense of responsibility.”

“No, really. Miles doesn’t take speed. Miles _is_ speed.”

There was a short silence. Byerly had given up on the roast and started picking at his salad, when Ivan suddenly asked, “Do you ever get the sense that ImpSec’s left hand doesn’t know what its right hand is doing?”

“ _All the damn time_. Why do you ask?”

“I was just wondering. What if someone from Galactic Affairs didn’t know who you were, and he _shot_ you?”

“Why would someone from Galactic Affairs want to shoot me?”

“Well,” said Ivan, with a charmingly Ivan-ish level of candor, “most people who know you want to shoot you at least _some_ of the time.”

“But I thought we were positing that this hypothetical person from Galactic Affairs _didn’t_ know me,” said Byerly, feeling that this conversation was making no sense at all. Maybe he really _did_ need to cut back on the creme de meth, or maybe he just needed a lot _more_. “Anyway, why are you worrying about me getting shot?”

“Well, I don’t _want_ you to get shot. At least, not _always_.”

This seemed like the closest thing to a positive declaration of friendship from Ivan as he was ever likely to get.

* * *

The conversation that followed was about one part enlightening to six parts frustrating, with a fairly heavy dose of _unnerving_ in the mix, as was always the case when one talked privately with Illyan. Worse, Illyan actually set them a _language puzzle_ and Ivan figured it out before _he_ did. That was a sure sign that he was too tired to _think_.

Eventually Illyan had mercy and gave him a hint of sorts; keeping an eye on Shiv and Star (and any inexplicable piles of dirt that suddenly appeared in the neighborhood of HQ) was at least a _manageable_ task, easier than trying to chase after a dozen people at once. And it sounded like Illyan was on top of the problem, and had been from the beginning. Of course ... the fact that he had apparently been _free-lancing_ was a little disturbing, but By had often been guilty of free-lancing himself. He was inclined not to report it.

He settled into the passenger seat of Ivan’s two-seater with some relief. He actually found Ivan’s driving relaxing; it made him think about all the problems that would instantly disappear if he got killed.

Something about the rain and the speed and the silence of the night seemed to invite confidences, and the next thing he knew, he had swallowed a considerable amount of pride and admitted, “I don’t usually get attached to my surveillance subjects.” And then, because this was clearly a case of in-for-a-mark-in-for-a-Betan-dollar, and because it was growing all-too-obvious that he was an absolute babe in the _woods_ where serious relationships were concerned, he asked Ivan point blank how he’d managed to keep all his girlfriends happy.

“You know,” said Ivan, “I’ve always wondered why nobody ever notices that lots and lots of girlfriends entail lots and lots of breakups.”

 _Well, fuck me, Ivan-the-stud doesn’t know this either? What hope is there for the rest of us?_ “Huh. You never seemed to point up that part.”

“No,” said Ivan bleakly.

This, he judged, was the correct moment to give Lady Alys a hand and hit Ivan over the head. “Well, at least parting with Tej should be no challenge for you.”

To judge by Ivan’s reaction, _not murdering Byerly_ was proving to be quite a challenge for him. But at least now Ivan would be _on_ the problem of how to win their respective partners back, and By had considerable respect for Ivan’s ingenuity in such matters.

* * *

Ivan dropped By off at his flat. He went to bed, at a much earlier hour than usual, and then lay there tossing about. He was _exhausted_ , but he couldn’t sleep, which was one of the unpleasant side effects of having a system full of amphetamines. He swore he was never going to touch creme de meth again. Rish was right, it was appallingly bad for him. Rish was right about a hell of a lot of things, possibly including the fact that he was a sorry excuse for a human being.

He got up after an hour or two, dressed, mixed himself a stiff gin and tonic, and lay on the couch sipping it and feeling sorry for himself. Contraband, who was usually very good at sensing when he was in a mood, curled up on his chest and started to lick him. Unfortunately, feline company wasn’t going to be sufficient just now. And the sort of company he could find in his usual after-midnight haunts was _worse_. What he needed was a genuine friend, someone who could talk him _down_. 

He had another drink and considered the problem. Dono or Alain would have opened their doors to him at any hour of the night, and Alain might not even _complain_ about it, but – no. He wasn’t about to inflict himself on a contented husband and father, not while he was in his present state of mind.

He thought, suddenly, of Lev Brodsky, who was the only other person he knew who’d actually _lived_ this.

Granted, Brodsky hadn’t ever seemed to have much of a love life. (Byerly knew that he preferred men, at least in theory, and that he preferred them his own age, because he’d said so when By had made a pass at him, back in the days when he made passes at _everyone_ who seemed likely to bankroll him for a week or two. And then Lev had offered him a different way of making money instead. And then things had developed from there.)

He mixed himself a third drink and decided after one sip that he was _sick_ of gin and tonic, which had always been his _work_ drink. Had he ever particularly liked it? Or had it just been useful: appropriate for the sophisticated man-about-town persona he wanted to project, easy to water down, better than vodka for making sure you _smelled_ like a drunk?

He gulped the rest of it down anyway – no sense wasting good liquor – grabbed his coat, and walked to the monorail station.

* * *

Once he had taken the monorail to the right stop, he stopped in at a seedy-looking bar along the road to Lev’s place and downed several shots of vodka, since he knew this was his last chance for a drink that night. His clothing and high-Vor accent earned him a curious glance or two, but nobody hassled him. It occurred to him that it was, perhaps, more advisable to call ahead than to lean on Brodsky’s doorbell at two or three in the morning.

Lev sounded a bit grumpy at having been woken up, but once he realized who was calling, he said “Right, come on over, By.” _By_ , not _Vorrutyer_. That was a hopeful sign.

When he rang the doorbell, Lev took one look at him and said, “Sit down.” He ducked into the kitchen and came back with a large glass of water, a mug of herbal tea, a couple of painkillers (the kind with an added sleep aid), and a box of tissues. Byerly obediently began to swallow the first three items, and looked askance at the last one. (Vorrutyers didn’t cry; they got drunk, got high, smashed things, had sex with all the wrong people, and took stupid risks, but they definitely didn’t _cry_. Except when their own father accused them of doing something unspeakable. Or once, years ago, when they went to ImpSec to turn Lev Brodsky in.)

“Now,” said Lev, “tell me what’s the matter.”

“I’ve been set an impossible task, I think. I’m supposed to be shadowing _eleven people_ when there’s only one of me, and they’re all giving me the runaround, including my girlfriend. Well, ex-girlfriend. We don’t talk any more except to snip at each other, but she’s _still_ supposed to be one of my surveillance subjects, which means that under the circs I can’t really _blame_ her for not talking to me. I keep calling for backup, but I’m not getting any help at all, just vague promises about _maybe next week_. You’ve got more pull than I do at HQ, is there anyone you can talk to?”

“Hang on a bit longer. Once this galactic diplomatic conference is over, I’ll get them to give you some paid leave. Three weeks, minimum. Preferably a month or more.”

In _three weeks_ the entire Arqua clan would long gone, putting an end to whatever fading chance he had of patching things up with Rish. “But I don’t want that,” Byerly protested. “I want to see this assignment through to the end, I just need enough support to do it _properly_.”

“From the look of you, you’re long past the point where what you _want_ matters. What you _need_ is some time off. That’s something we can give you, even if I can’t do anything about the important part of what you just told me.”

“Which was ...?”

“The part where you don’t talk to your girlfriend any more. That’s really what brought you here, isn’t it? And _that_ means you need to step away from this assignment, very badly.”

“You think I’m _compromised_ ," said By, feeling vaguely insulted. "That I can’t do my job any more.”

“I don’t think that. Not at all. We –” Brodsky stopped and corrected himself – “I’m retired, ImpSec isn’t _we_. _They_ aren’t asking more of you than you’re well capable of giving. What I’m trying to tell you is that you’ve reached the point where they’re asking more of you than they have a _right_.”

As usual, Lev had managed to put his finger on something By hadn’t been able to articulate even to himself. “ _That’s_ it. Thank you. Except I’ve given and given, and I’m not sure I _do_ have anything left to give any more. My God, Lev, I think I’ve handed over my last girlfriend to face death by starvation – the last one who counted, that is – everyone I’ve been with since then was for _work_ – and I can’t, _can’t_ do that any more, I’m sick of going to bed with people and then _betraying_ them, and I can’t remember when I had a personal life that _didn’t_ involve that, and I was fool enough to hope that things might be different with Rish because at least she _knew_ who and what I was from the beginning, but that makes it worse, doesn’t it, when you have to commit that betrayal anyway? And I’m not sure any more what good my work even _does_ , except maybe ridding the world of teen-idol pop singers, because apparently knowing the truth about his boyfriend made Rudy Fairchild unhappy enough to throw himself off a bridge, and what kind of government actually _pays_ people to do that to people?” A belated, cautious instinct caused him to stem the flood of words. “Wait – you’re not _testing_ me, are you? The infamous Brodsky test, part two?”

“Testing you for what? What an Old Earth novelist once called _thoughtcrime?_ Good God, no. Even if I were still working for ImpSec, I wouldn’t. Your thoughts are your own.”

“Doesn’t treason always start with thoughtcrime?”

“Nothing you’ve said or done is _treason_. Not even close.” This would have been comforting, except that Lev was obviously thinking he was dealing with someone delusional, because the next thing he said was, “Now, slow down and take a deep breath. Did I hear you say you’d been dating _Rudy Fairchild_ and that he’s committed suicide?”

“Not committed, _attempted_. And _I_ haven’t been dating him, I just helped to put the person he _has_ been dating in jail.”

He told the Rudy-story again, a bit more coherently, and then the Sylvie-story and the Rish-story and even a bit of the Elysse-story (he’d been thinking of them as all tangled up together, parts of the same story, but of course they didn’t really have that much to do with each other).

Lev listened to it all patiently, and then said, “What I’m hearing is that you did the right thing every time, son, no matter what it cost you. For as long as I’ve known you, you’ve _always_ done the right thing. Remember that.”

It was the _son_ that caused him to reach for the box of tissues after all. Lev politely looked the other way, and then stumped off to get By some more water and a couple of blankets from the linen closet.

“Get some sleep,” he said firmly.

By’s last thought, before he dropped off to sleep, was: _A notoriously paranoid government agency is my family. How fucked up is that?_


	21. A Herd of Gengineered Earthworms on Speed

Byerly wasn’t too badly hung over in the morning, thanks to all the tea and water Lev had made him drink. He glanced at the time on his wristcom. “Oh, shit. I’m supposed to be meeting a couple of Rish’s sisters for lunch in an hour, and their hotel’s all the way downtown.”

“You needed sleep. You’re no good to anyone without it. And if they’re really just inventing errands to give you the runaround, it won’t make the least bit of difference whether you’re there on time or not. Are you going to be all right to go on?”

“Yes. For now. As soon as I get some coffee.”

Along with the coffee, Lev handed him a bowl of instant groats and a protein bar. He started to protest that he wasn’t hungry, and didn’t usually bother with breakfast anyway, _particularly_ after a night of heavy drinking, but Lev cut him off. “Get some fuel into you. You’ll need it if they’re running you as hard as you said.” He rummaged in the fridge and came up with an orange, which he threw in By’s general direction. “Get some vitamins, too.”

He took a bite or two, and discovered that he was hungry enough that instant groats and protein bars actually seemed _edible_. That was the thing about Lev; he might be blunt and abrasive, but he was almost never wrong.

“Just one last thing,” said Lev, before he left. “If you decide to get out of the business for good, get the clinic at ImpSec to refill your anti-addictants first. They will, no questions asked. And keep taking them for at least a year after you quit. Will you give me your word that you’ll do that?”

“Yes,” said By, who had always _suspected_ that something other than distaste lay behind Lev’s refusal to keep alcohol in the house. He was tempted to point out that his relationship with alcohol was one of the few truly satisfactory ones he had, and he wasn’t about to screw it up – but people never seemed to find it _reassuring_ when he said that sort of thing.

* * *

He’d had, at any rate, an inspiration about how to keep a few more of the Arquas in one place at one time.

“Ivan? Can I borrow your Great House set?”

“Sure.” Ivan rummaged in his coat closet, and came up with the game board and player panels. “Things any better with Rish?”

“No. I don’t ... think there’s ever going to be any prospect of their getting better. Right now I’m just trying to do my job and not worry about the rest of it, you know?”

“Bad luck,” said Ivan, and then, because _sustained_ sympathy from Ivan was too much to hope for, “Well – at least you’ve got twice the usual odds of finding someone else.”

“It doesn’t _work_ that way,” By explained in some annoyance, “because it doesn’t double the number of people who are interested in _you_ , which is usually the limiting factor. Quite the reverse, actually.”

Ivan’s mouth was set in something irritatingly like a _smirk_ , and By realized, suddenly, that his last remark had not simply been Ivan-being-monosexual-and-clueless, but Ivan _paying him back_ for his parting line last night.

Damned if this weren’t looking like the beginning of a beautiful friendship.

* * *

He’d gotten fairly good at playing Great House against Ivan and Rish and Tej, but when you played it with a whole pack of Arquas, it was like a different game. There were _alliances_. They weren’t usually stable, and in fact they tended to shift a great deal in the endgame, which was the most ruthless part. Star and Pidge, when they teamed up, were nearly unbeatable in the short run and usually eliminated one or more of their competitors, but they always started to backstab each other too early, which was when the survivors began to close in. The other thing that was different was that as soon as one player was eliminated, somebody else usually stepped in and claimed the empty player panel, building up a brand-new House from scratch. He could see that in a family of eleven, this must have been an essential house rule, but surely, _surely_ it must be impossible for the new player to win when they started so far behind. Except ... Pearl, who had taken over Byerly’s panel after a quick and ignominious defeat, actually _did_ win. Or at any rate (since becoming the sole survivor under Arqua house rules was impossible as long as anyone else was available to take over), she managed to establish herself as the lone Great House and maneuver everyone else into a fairly stable constellation of Houses Minor.

Then she slapped hands with Rish and Em and Jet over the coffee table, and he understood how she’d done it. They weren’t a temporary alliance, but a _team_ , and the other Jewels were willing to accept permanent House-Minor status.

You couldn’t win when you were up against that, he thought. You just _couldn’t_.

* * *

Alain called later that evening. “What’s going on between you and Lev Brodsky, exactly?”

“Nothing’s _going on_ , as such. I turned up at his house last night – I was a bit drunk at the time – and he was decent enough to let me crash on his couch. Why?”

“He called and asked me a couple of weird questions about you. I thought you’d probably want to know.”

“What sort of questions?”

“Well, did I think there was any risk you might try to off yourself, for a start.”

“Good Lord! I hope you told him there isn’t.”

“Yeah, of course I did. I said I didn’t think you were the suicidal type – that _is_ right, isn’t it –”

“Of _course_ it’s right. If I were, I would have done it when I was eighteen or twenty, not _now_.”

“– and I said that when you _do_ decide to go all self-destructive or at least self-sabotaging, it’s always in much weirder and twistier ways that aren’t actually _intended_ to lead to your death, although sometimes it’s come close to happening as a side effect. And he said yes, that was what he’d always thought about you too.”

“Did you _have_ to say all that?”

“It was _Brodsky_. He’s one of those elder-statesman types that you just don’t _lie_ to. It would be the next-worst thing to lying to Simon Illyan.”

Byerly bit his tongue and refrained from lecturing Alain on the difference between _lying_ and _not telling the full truth_. He also reflected that _he_ wouldn’t have had the slightest compunction about not telling the full truth to Illyan, since turnabout was fair play.

“And then he asked, did I think you would have any interest in an extended off-world assignment. I said I wasn’t sure, but as far as I knew you didn’t have any objections.”

“No ... I suppose I don’t. Healing power of travel and all that. Did he say what _kind_ of assignment, or where?”

“No, he was very closed-mouthed about that. I tried hinting that _I_ might be interested in an extended off-world assignment, if they were looking for volunteers, but he just laughed. I hope they’re sending you somewhere fun, and you’ll have to tell me all about it after you come home.”

“He didn’t have any business laughing at you.”

“I’m a _records office clerk_ , By. I can’t blame him.”

* * *

On the following day, Pearl and Em expressed an interest in being taken to Vorbarr Sultana’s famous Winterfair market, and By couldn’t see any polite way to refuse. He did suggest that perhaps the rest of the family might enjoy the market as well, but both women started giggling and said, “We couldn’t possibly invite them, we’ve got _presents_ to buy.” So that was that. He took comfort in Illyan’s point that whatever Shiv and Star might be planning, they couldn’t do it _instantly_.

They set off, each of the girls with a hand companionably tucked into the crook of his arm. (Rish might be holding herself aloof, but the rest of the Jewels were chummy with him in ways that involved lots of physical touching. It would have been quite pleasant, except he kept wondering whether they were offering themselves as potential substitutes, or whether they simply regarded him as a sort of exotic pet.) Em was hooded, gloved, and heavily muffled, but at this time of year that attracted little attention; Pearl, more ordinary-looking even by Barrayaran standards, scarcely drew a glance once she had put on a bit of face powder.

Wooden stalls selling food, mulled wine, and handicrafts were set up all around the square. Em seemed to gravitate toward anything that had cute animals on it, and ended up buying a dozen pairs of kitten and bunny slippers, evidently presents for the whole clan. Byerly’s mouth twitched as he tried to picture Rish’s probable reception of such a gift. Apparently, Cetagandan genes didn’t automatically instill people with _taste_.

He stopped to inspect a stall with hand-knitted cashmere scarves; there was one in gold and blue and russet that would be just right for Rish. He hesitated a moment, and decided to take a leap of faith and buy it. He wondered what she’d say when she found out it was made from _goats_.

There were child-sized scarves, too, and he took some time picking out one with colors that were bright and attractive but wouldn’t get a small boy teased. He hoped Leon McSorley would like it.

He spotted a woodcarver selling pull toys, and bought one for CeeCee, who – according to Dono’s latest proud message – had just started walking. His nephew would be more difficult. Julia had married very young, and her son was almost Service Academy age, although By had a very strong desire _not_ to give the boy an Academy-related present. What, he wondered, did teenaged boys these days _like?_ _He_ had liked music, and he supposed most teenagers did, but if your _uncle_ had heard of an artist, didn’t that make them automatically uncool?

He began to notice the song playing on the market’s speaker system, which seemed different from the usual Winterfair pabulum. A male voice, rough with what sounded like genuine emotion. He felt like he ought to know that voice, but couldn’t place it.

_... Did I betray you or did you betray me?_

God, he thought, what a question.

_Whenever I reached for you in the night,_  
_You shrank from my touch, but I chose not to see..._

Right, _that_ bit hadn’t been written for him and Rish. At least, he was pretty sure she had genuinely desired him.

_I saw your beauty but never your soul,_  
_You saw a short road to money and fame,_  
_Each of us thinking we were in control,_  
_And I hardly know, after all, who’s to blame..._

The voice had reached a soaring crescendo of regret and confusion. “What _is_ that music?” he asked the mulled-wine vendor when he and the girls stopped for a drink.

“What music?”

“On the speakers. Listen.”

“Oh, I never really pay attention to that. I think they just play it because it puts the customers in a better mood.” The vendor tilted his head. “But this is just sort of gloomy, isn’t it? I don’t think I like it.”

“I do.”

“It’s Rudy Fairchild’s latest,” said a woman who had drifted up next to them.

“ _That’s_ Rudy Fairchild?” But of course it was. He recognized the voice now.

“Yeah, there was an article about it on the network. Apparently he was in the hospital for exhaustion and dehydration ...” ( _More like over-hydration_, Byerly thought) “... and this song just _came_ to him, and as soon as they let him out he went into the studio that same day and recorded it. I didn’t even know he wrote his own material, did you?”

“No,” said By. “I didn’t know he _could_ write.” And then, he realized that every Rudy Fairchild love song he’d ever heard had been deliberately coy about the gender of the beloved, and he was sure the man had been writing his own stuff all along. Apparently it had taken a plunge into a freezing river for him to get _good_. There was probably some sort of meaning in that, but he was damned if he knew what it was.

* * *

Amiri (Amiri Basir Ghaleb Sharif Rafi ghem Estif Arqua, he had learned) was by far the most easygoing member of Rish’s family, if you left out Tej, who was kind of in a category by herself. Still, he could deflect and bedevil an unwanted surveillance agent as efficiently as the rest of them, so, while he personally liked the man, By was none too happy about being drawn off for a walk and a private conversation.

Surprisingly, it turned out that Amiri actually did want to talk to him. “Give us a DNA sample, and we should have your new heart all ready to go in a few months. We’ve got a special medical tourism package for off-worlders. Couple of nights in a nice hotel, tour of Escobaran sights and monuments, bottle of champagne once you’re recovered enough to drink it and toast your new organs. Well, we don’t include the last one for liver transplants unless they absolutely _insist_.”

“We can _do_ all of that on Barrayar. We have modern technology now.”

“But you haven’t had it _done_.”

“We also have a funny old-fashioned idea that people don’t need organ transplants until they’re actually _sick_.”

“Rish says you’ve got to take pills for it every day. She considers that sick.”

“Well, I don’t, and ImpSec’s entire medical staff agrees with me. I feel fine, they say I’m in excellent health and doing well on the meds, and the whole thing isn’t more than a minor inconvenience. Anyway, wouldn’t you just be cloning a defective heart? What good is that supposed to do?”

“Depending on your condition, we might be able to do some genetic tweaking. In any case, cloned organs are _brand new_ , so a lot of times it’s just a matter of replacing something that’s wearing out. Rish had some concerns that your, uh, lifestyle might have caused a bit more wear and tear than normal, although without examining you, I couldn’t really say.”

“What lifestyle? Alcohol and drugs?” Rish, of all people, should know that he was far more moderate in his use of both than it looked.

“I think she was thinking stress and lack of rest, actually.”

“Tell your sister she can _do_ something about both of those things if she’s so worried about me.”

“You’d better tell her yourself. I don’t do couples counseling.”

“We’re not actually a couple. Not any more.” It occurred to Byerly, as soon as he’d said this, that if Rish had taken it into her head to fuss over his health, she might not have gotten the memo. Which was ... encouraging, actually. “Anyway, I’ve been getting by just fine with my old, rickety heart for almost four decades. It’s mine. I’d rather keep it for as long as it lasts.”

“Suit yourself,” said Amiri amiably. “I’ve never really cared for hearts, myself. Give me a nice liver any day. When livers surprise you, it’s by continuing to function when they _shouldn’t_ , instead of the other way around. And they grow amazingly well in vats.”

“Do you have any other favorite organs?”

Amiri thought about it for a moment. “The spleen. Almost nobody _appreciates_ it properly.”

As Byerly had certainly failed to appreciate his spleen properly, or even to think about the fact that it existed, there didn’t seem to be much to say to this.

* * *

“Did Amiri talk to you?” Rish asked the next time he saw her.

“Rish ... there are a lot of situations in life where _offering to replace the thing you broke_ is an appropriate thing to do, but this really, _really_ isn’t one of them.”

She gave him a cynical look. “I don’t believe you’re as broken-hearted as all that. You _enjoyed_ thinking up that line and delivering it.”

 _I did, but so what if I did?_ he thought. _That just means you know me well enough to call me on my little vanities, and I need someone to do that, I need you so very badly ..._

* * *

“All right,” said Amiri, in the hotel bar later that evening, “maybe I _do_ do couples counseling. Or at any rate, I can offer some insight into our family, if you’re interested.”

“Go on.”

“Well, first of all – _individually_ , we’re all quite decent. Well, maybe not Star so much, but everyone else is. It’s the _collective_ identity, the Arqua-mind-meld, that’s the problem.”

“Enough of a problem for you to move to another planet?”

“When you’re one of the _backup heirs_ ,” said Amiri with a wry smile, “you sometimes have to resort to extreme measures. I love them, but no, I can’t take being around all of them at once for any length of time. You find yourself sucked into a Jacksonian mindset, where you’re always calculating the price of everything and everyone, and thinking about people in terms of what you can get them to do for you.”

_Sounds a lot like the ImpSec mindset. I should feel more at home with these people than I do._

“And, well, on Jackson’s Whole, your House is like your government and your religion and your _identity_ all wrapped into one, and in our case it’s our family as well. It doesn’t ... leave a lot of room for outside interests.”

“Our Imperium is sort of like that here.”

“So you’re familiar with the concept. And you can see why two people with conflicting sets of loyalties are ... going to run into some challenges.”

“Do you think there’s any way to reconcile those conflicting loyalties?”

“Depends. I know of a case where strategists for rival Houses married, but it worked out because they were both the sort of people who saw it all as a grand game, and neither of them _believed_ very deeply in what they were doing. If you _do_ believe in it – and I will say that Rish believes in our family, very deeply...”

“What then?”

“Well, it seems to me that either you split up, or one of you converts the other, or ... it turns out that your loyalties aren’t absolutely in conflict, after all. Has it occurred to you that your government and House Cordonah might have some mutual interests?”

The glimmer of hope Byerly had just begun to nurture instantly gave way to suspicion. “Are you trying to _hustle_ me, Amiri?”

Amiri grinned. “See what I mean about getting sucked back into the mindset?”

* * *

He had observed several more games of Great House by then, since lounging on the sofa in their hotel suite was a _much_ more sensible way to observe the largest possible concentration of Arquas than trying to chase them all over the city. He kept an eye on Star, and he usually did manage to attach himself to her if she detached herself from the crowd, but Shiv, surprisingly, didn’t pose a problem. The family patriarch never joined in the game, but he watched his offspring’s strategies almost as closely as Byerly did, and occasionally offered critique.

“You _can’t_ win at Great House without making alliances, son,” he observed, after By had been eliminated early in the game, _again_. “It doesn’t _work_.”

To his everlasting relief, By didn’t experience any embarrassing reactions when Shiv Arqua decided to address him as _son_. It must be a Lev-thing.

They had a rematch on the following afternoon. As usual, he had one of the sofas to himself, since Star preferred the floor, and Rish and Jet and Em and Pearl had all crowded onto the other one. They sprawled across each other in a fantastic tangle of variously-colored limbs, radiating contentment; he half-expected them to start _purring_. Rish, he thought, had never looked so beautiful or so unreachable.

The corner of his player panel flashed; he was being offered a Deal. From Rish. He was about to punch it away, in annoyance; what good was an alliance with someone who would choose the other Jewels over you as soon as she had to make the choice? But he remembered what Shiv had said, and the only other possible ally was Star, whom he didn’t trust either. Very well, then; they could team up long enough to eliminate Star, and it was just possible that Tej or Amiri, the only ones he remotely trusted as allies, would cut in and replace her.

He accepted the Deal.

Then Star attacked them all at once, and he had little choice but to call on Rish, who had the only mercenary fleet chit left. He expected her to double-cross him, saving it for one of the others, but she slid it over.

Pearl and Em flashed each other a quick look – a sort of silent _what is going on?_ – before surrendering. Jet held out for a few more turns, managing to blow up most of Star’s stock of weapons, before he shrugged, grinned, and said, “I’m out.”

“All right, wild-caught,” said Rish, “let’s clobber her.”

“Good game,” remarked Shiv afterward, and then, off-handedly, “You know, Udine’s the one who’s really set on having one of my biological children as heir. She believes in genetics. _I_ believe in merit.”

Byerly had no idea what to say to this. It sounded very much as if a shot at a Jacksonian baronage were being dangled in front of him if he kept playing his hand right – _literally_.

* * *

In the end, it was sheer exhaustion that caught up with him. He was used to snatching scraps of sleep at odd hours – you had to, if you were going to parties all night and writing reports during the day – but one afternoon he curled up for what was meant to be a quick catnap, and didn’t wake until nearly midnight.

Oh, shit. He was supposed to have met the Arquas for dinner _hours_ ago. He wondered why they hadn’t tried to make contact. He called Rish’s wristcom, and then, when she didn’t answer, tried Tej’s, and then Ivan’s. No answer from anyone. He didn’t have comcodes for anyone else, so he tried the front desk at the hotel.

“They’ve gone out, sir.”

“ _All_ of them? When?”

“A few hours ago.”

“But they don’t have a car. Do they? Did someone give them a ride?” He hoped against hope that Lady Alys had decided to invite them for dinner, after he’d stood them up.

“They left on foot. They were carrying a number of parcels, and some of them had backpacks.”

“And nobody thought of following them? Or calling anybody?”

“I understood there was already an ImpSec man keeping an eye on them, sir.”

 _Right, that would be me_. “Ah – which direction?”

“North.”

That was the opposite direction from the park where Illyan thought the Jewels had been doing their sound-mapping. But that didn’t mean anything; they could have circled back. They probably _had_ done just that, if he knew anything about how these people thought.

Two people, he thought, would be more useful than one, so he took the bubble-tube to Ivan’s flat. The two-seater wasn’t parked in its usual spot, and there were no lights in the windows. He leaned on the doorbell anyway, for long enough that not even Ivan could ignore him – but it was a forlorn hope. Whatever they were up to, Ivan had somehow gotten caught up in it. He didn’t like _that_ at all. Among other things, explaining the situation to Lady Alys didn’t bear thinking about.

He knew that he really ought to report what had happened to her, or at least to McSorley, but he called Alain instead, because Alain was the best possible person to talk to when you were in massive trouble and starting to panic. He sounded rather sleepy when he answered, but agreed right away to come out and help By search for the Arquas. He was going to owe Alain a really good bottle of Scotch, he thought, and possibly even an evening of _babysitting_.

* * *

After a couple of hours of searching, it appeared that his subjects had vanished without a trace. Alain’s questioning had turned up a bored clerk at an all-night corner shop who had seen them pass by, in the general direction of the park. Nobody else seemed to have noticed them, even though a party of strikingly beautiful galactics carrying backpacks and parcels ought to have attracted _some_ attention. Particularly if they had started _tunneling_.

They couldn’t, he and Alain agreed, have strolled past _ImpSec headquarters_ without being spotted, so they had to have gone to ground somewhere in the three blocks in between. Perhaps literally, if Illyan’s theory about an underground bunker was correct. But there were no signs of tunneling or drilling that they could find, and surely, _surely_ someone would have noticed and reported the activity if the Arquas had been doing it earlier.

“But it’s obvious what’s going on,” said Alain unexpectedly, “they must have brought some sort of animal with them that eats dirt.”

It was a testament to the intensity and sincerity of his friendship with Alain that Byerly did not greet this theory with the derision that it would have deserved if it had come from anyone else. “Um. What kind of animal eats dirt?”

“Earthworms do. I guess this must be something like an earthworm on steroids.”

“You’ve ... never been through shuttleport customs, have you?” Alain shook his head; of course not, he’d never been off-world before. “If they’d had a giant _earthworm_ in their luggage, somebody would have _noticed_.”

“A lot of small earthworms, then. On speed.”

“But ... but how is that even _possible?_ ”

“I don’t know,” Alain admitted, “but if _butterbugs_ are possible, why not? And, I mean, genetic engineering is sort of what these people do.”

“How are you figuring any of this?”

“Captain Illyan said they were trying to dig a tunnel of some sort. You said yourself that you tried to watch the ones who had the technical know-how, and you think you mostly succeeded. _And_ there hasn’t been any sign of tunneling equipment, or suspicious piles of dirt, or any of the other stuff you’d expect if someone was digging a tunnel. So they didn’t do it the usual way, but now they’ve all vanished. So that means they must have contacted someone to do the tunneling _for_ them, or else brought something with them. They don’t seem to have any on-world contacts, so it’s more likely that they brought it with them. And it’s probably something organic, rather than a machine, because organic is _quiet_ , and you can leave it alone to work all by itself.”

“But – but you’re positing an animal that eats _enormous_ amounts of dirt. Wouldn’t it have to, you know, defecate?”

“Yes. But not necessarily right _there_. They could have gengineered it to, I dunno, go in the river.”

Byerly attempted to persuade Alain of the sheer _improbability_ of digging a tunnel with a herd of genetically engineered, _toilet-trained_ earthworms on speed; but whenever he thought he’d argued Alain into a corner, Alain said, “But _butterbugs_ ,” and he had to admit he didn’t have an answer for that.

Then Alain’s work-issued wristcom started making its _urgent message_ signal. He glanced at it, and said, “Huh, _that’s_ weird.”

“What?”

“Someone’s tried to bomb Cockroach Central.”


	22. A Drastic Cure for Acrophobia

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some of the dialogue in the bunker scene is taken directly from _Captain Vorpatril's Alliance_.

There _had_ been a muffled explosion a while back, Byerly realized; he’d put it down to kids setting off firecrackers, which wasn’t unusual this close to Winterfair. “Great, this neighborhood’s going to be swarming with military guys in a few minutes. What do you say we clear out and check the hotel again?”

“Um. You really need to call McSorley and _tell_ him you’ve lost them, I think. Because you’ve let this go on long enough without calling for backup.”

“Hotel first. I’ll look like a real idiot if they were there all along, won’t I?”

* * *

They weren’t at the hotel, and one last attempt to call Ivan’s flat went unanswered, at which point Alain said, in an ominous voice, “If you don’t call McSorley right this minute, then _I_ will.” Byerly called McSorley.

It took him a while to get through; Alain, meanwhile, kept checking his own wristcom and giving him updates on the ImpSec explosion, which didn’t seem to have resulted in any serious injuries. When he finally did manage to get in touch, McSorley sounded distracted, and a good deal less furious than he ought to have been. Byerly offered up silent thanks to the bomber, whoever he might be.

“Got another message coming in,” said McSorley. “Possibly relevant. Stand by.”

When he called back, he said, “We’ve just had a report come in on someone who sounds like she might be one of your surveillance subjects. Tall, striking-looking woman, dark complexion, athletic build, looks to be in her thirties. Dressed in galactic styles, very chic and expensive-looking. Except for her shoes. For some reason, she was wearing bunny slippers.”

“That would be Star. Or Pidge. What color is her hair?”

“The men who brought her in didn’t say.”

“Oh, you’ve _got_ her. Excellent, don’t let her leave. Who does she say she is?”

“She hasn’t said anything. She’s unconscious. A couple of goons were dragging her into a van, and they were interrupted by some of our boys, and there was a firefight that seems to have triggered the explosion at HQ. She’s at ImpMil, and they’re trying to bring her round.”

Huh. Had he gotten it all wrong, and had the whole family fallen prey to galactic bounty-hunters? But in that case, where was _Ivan?_ “Was anyone else with her? Did any of the thugs get away?”

“No, and yes -- it appears that we're looking for at least two more of them.”

“Do you want me to go to the hospital?”

“Not much point in it until they bring her round. I’ll call you when they do.”

 _Bunny slippers_. Emerald had been buying slippers at the Winterfair market, gifts for her family. All right. But surely, even if you were _very_ fond of your sister and didn’t want to hurt her feelings, you didn’t wear bunny slippers in _public_ , especially when they didn’t match the rest of your ensemble.

He shut his eyes and envisioned a scenario in which bounty hunters had drugged one of the Arqua daughters, snatched her from the hotel, and started to dress her up because ... well, because someone trying to go off-planet in pajamas would raise eyebrows at the shuttleport. But no – that was no good, since the hotel concierge had seen them go _out_ and was quite sure they hadn’t come _back_.

He laid the problem before Alain, who said, “Call McSorley back and ask him _where_ this firefight was, because obviously it has to have been near ImpSec for it to have set off the explosion.”

Of _course_. How had he missed that?

“And then we can go there and look for her shoes.”

“I’m not sure we really need to find her _shoes_. How about her parents and brothers and sisters?” Not to mention Ivan. Dammit, Lady Alys was going to kill him if he lost Ivan.

“She wasn’t in the middle of getting dressed if she’d already left the hotel. So she took her shoes _off_ in order to put the slippers _on_ , and unless she’s really weird ...”

“ _All_ of these people are really weird –”

“... Unless she’s _even weirder_ than that, she must’ve had some reason for taking them off. And when you figure out the reason, you’ll know what they were doing, and working out what they were doing is the first step to finding them.”

* * *

They found the shoes half an hour later, in a roughly-tunneled vestibule below a utility room at the back of the parking garage where the firefight had taken place. By then they had been joined by McSorley and one of the ImpSec patrolers who had rescued Star from her abductors.

The two officers began exploring the tunnel, ordering By and Alain to stay put. They emerged after less than a minute, looking grim. “It dead-ends in a pile of rubble. Looks like the explosion also triggered a cave-in.”

One pair of shoes was so large they could only belong to Ivan. Poor, clueless, guileless Ivan, who had fallen madly in love with his wife (the wife Byerly had _introduced_ him to) and would do anything she told him to do. Or maybe it hadn’t been voluntary. Maybe they’d abducted him and forced him to go along as a hostage.

They’d left snacks and water in the vestibule. They’d been planning to come right back.

They’d left all of their electronic devices, too, and he recognized one of the wristcoms, a cheap, prepaid model. He remembered picking out that coppery color because it would look good against Rish’s skin. He picked it up and slipped it into his coat pocket when no one was looking; _tampering with evidence_ they’d call it, but it was a comfort having it there. He had no proper mementos of her. She’d come to his world with nothing, and was leaving it, perhaps, with less.

* * *

“I still say we should swim for it,” said Jet. He looked very young in the fading cold-light, and very frightened.

Rish kept a firm grip on his arm. “Don’t. You’ll drown yourself if you try.”

“It’s better than staying here and waiting to _be_ drowned.” There was a stubborn set to his mouth, an expression that Rish remembered from childhood.

A phrase floated into her mind: _If the water come to him and drown him, he drowns not himself._ It took her a moment to place it; it was a line from that play they’d watched on holovid. _He that is not guilty of his own death shortens not his own life._ She was getting to be like one of those damn Barrayarans, thinking in Shakespeare.

_I wanted you here with me, baby brother, I wished you here so many times, when I was alone on this planet..._

Jet opened the case of gold coins, stirring them absently with his fingers. God, Rish thought, what a waste that discovery had turned out to be. They couldn’t eat gold. They couldn’t _breathe_ gold. _Why_ had they all taken it into their heads that it was worth risking their lives for?

“Stay still,” she said. “Save the air.” _Save it for what?_ she wondered bleakly, but Jet nodded.

Once the cold-light had gone out, she felt drowsy and vaguely panicky all at once; both sensations, she suspected, were signs that their oxygen was running out. She tried to doze, but she was troubled by dreams about _suffocating in gold_ , and awoke with a jerk.

The water was rising again; it was lapping at the edges of Jet’s body. She shook him awake. He said “Huh?” a little foggily, and followed her up the tunnel to where it dead-ended.

“D’you think the others are going to make it out?” Jet asked.

“I don’t know. Maybe. I hope.”

“Because I was just thinking about Topaz. She won’t ever know, will she, if we all die here? She’ll think the Baron and Baronne abandoned her.”

“She won’t think that. She’ll know something terrible has happened to them if they never come.”

 _By won’t know_ , she thought unexpectedly. _He doesn’t have that kind of faith in people. He’ll just figure we decamped in the night – which is exactly what we were planning, after all – and maybe every now and again he’ll think about me and wonder where I am. Or not. He could live another fifty or sixty years. He’ll probably forget._

That was ironic, because it came to her in a flash of clarity that she’d been afraid of letting herself feel too much for him because of the _wild-caught_ thing. The possibility that _he_ might outlive _her_ – by rather a lot – hadn’t occurred to her before.

* * *

After he’d spilled everything Illyan had told him about the secret underground bunker, and they’d gotten confirmation of what the sonic-mapping dance routine looked like from ImpSec men who had witnessed it, there was a great deal a lot of waiting around while the park filled with soldiers and equipment, and the military engineers figured out the best way to go in. It would have been tedious if he hadn’t been outright _panicked. Why_ was it taking so long? It was just a matter of lifting up a chunk of dirt, wasn’t it? He asked those questions of the engineers, and didn’t pay the least attention to the answers, so then he had to ask again. After the third or fourth iteration, the engineers were clearly losing patience. He paced, stamped, drove himself half-crazy imagining the worst case: Rish trapped under a fall of rock and dirt with the life crushed out of her. So much life. Such a little, fragile body. She barely came up to his chin, and he wasn’t tall.

He clenched his hand around the wristcom so hard that it left marks. He hadn’t ever properly made up with her, unless you counted what had happened during that last game of Great House. He should have just _apologized_ , except he’d been too goddamn stubborn to consider the possibility that he might have been in the wrong. No, what he _should_ have done was report everything Illyan had told him at the first possible opportunity. She might have ended up in prison, but she’d be alive, and so would the rest of her family, and Ivan.

At least Rish had _chosen_ to go buried-treasure-hunting in dangerous places. He was pretty sure Ivan hadn’t chosen any such thing. He’d just _done_ it, apparently, because – because he was Ivan and who knew why he did anything? No, that wasn’t fair. Because he wasn’t the sort of person to let the woman he loved rush into danger without being right there to back her up, and because he also wasn’t the sort of person to rat her out to ImpSec. _Unlike_ certain other people.

Alain brought him tea, because it was Alain’s nature to bring tea, and then McSorley turned up at his elbow and said, “Vorrutyer, why don’t you make yourself useful and talk to that Arqua woman and get her out of the soldiers’ way, because you’re the only one she knows and she seems to be a bit hysterical.”

* * *

Actually, Star wasn’t hysterical. She’d clearly been crying, and she was all puffy and blotchy-faced just as if she were an ordinary person and not a terrifyingly beautiful Cetagandan-Jacksonian baronette, but somehow it didn’t make her any less _formidable_. She kept trying to give orders to the men operating the antigrav tractor. “Hurry _up_ , will you? They’re alive down there, I swear it.”

“We’re not picking up any signs of organic activity, miss.”

“No, you wouldn’t because it’s a _bunker_. Solid plascrete. Impermeable. They’re going to run out of oxygen, you know. Did I mention there’s a fortune down there in gold?”

“Relax,” Byerly said, in the same soft, coaxing tone he’d used to entice Contraband through the windows of the training barracks, back when Contraband had been little more than a kitten. “It’s going to be all right.” One couldn’t exactly _pat_ a terrifyingly beautiful Cetagandan-Jacksonian baronette, but he did offer her his untouched tea.

She shot him a furious look. “Those are _my little brothers and sisters_ down there.”

“I know. But they’re going to get rescued. The military’s good at that sort of thing, they know what they’re doing.”

“So do _I_ know what I’m doing.” This was probably true, he realized, thinking over what he knew of Star’s résumé. Engineering degree from one of the best universities in the galaxy, second-in-command of House Cordonah’s security – possibly _first_ -in-command, now, since her superior had evidently presided over a catastrophic failure.

“Right, but they can’t take orders from more than one quarter at a time, and they aren’t going to take them from a civilian.”

“Nobody on this backward planet is going to take them from a woman, you mean.”

“That, too,” he admitted. They stood for a moment, watching the grav-lifters go to work. “Are they doing anything _wrong_ , can you tell?”

“No,” she said reluctantly. “They’re doing pretty much what I would have told them to do.”

“Good. Keep watching them, and tell me if they go wrong. I’ll find some way to make them listen.” It was an empty promise, probably – but Star needed a _task_ as badly as he had needed one, and he trusted the Barrayaran military not to go wrong.

* * *

Lady Alys showed up eventually and took Star in hand, and By darted off before she could demand to know why he had let himself lose track of Ivan. The grav-lifters and plascrete-cutters had finished their work, and what was left was a gaping black hole in the ground, all set for some of the soldiers to rappel down the shaft.

“Vorrutyer,” said McSorley unexpectedly, “have you been keeping up with your physical training?”

“Yes. Why?”

“You can go in with them, if you’d like. They’ve got a spare harness.”

Alain nudged him and whispered, “Are you all right with that? Because I’ll go, if you don’t want to.” Alain knew how he felt on the topic of _heights_ , which was something he thought he’d successfully concealed from McSorley.

“I want to. I’ll manage.” The descent didn’t scare him half so much as what they might find at the bottom, and he found that he couldn’t bear the thought of waiting to be _told_ what they found, even by Alain, who would break it gently. “I mean, I don’t get _vertigo_ or anything, I’m just ... not overly fond of the experience.”

One of the soldiers handed him the harness and showed him how to buckle it on. “Looks like something you’d find in a sex shop,” he said, mostly to draw attention away from the fact that his hands were shaking.

* * *

The air had a stale, moist feel that told him Star was probably right about the lack of oxygen. The bunker was full of people who were very definitely alive, though. Alive and conscious. Everything was going to be just fine.

Ivan caught him by the legs and guided him down, which would ordinarily have been his cue to say something ribald and obnoxious, except at the moment, all he could manage was “I _hate_ heights.”

“Well,” said Ivan, “I hate depths.” Byerly believed it. Ivan looked sort of _harrowed_ – eyes all wide and dazed in a startlingly pale face.

“To each his own, I guess.”

“Evidently.”

He wasn’t sure whether he wanted to hug Ivan or shake him violently and order him to explain what the hell he had been _thinking_. Ivan pre-empted both moves by demanding, “What _took_ you so long?” to which By retorted, “Why didn’t you at least leave a _note?_ ” And for a second, things were reassuringly normal, until Tej came up to them and asked, “Have you seen Rish and Jet, on your end?”

He looked around, and realized for the first time that _Rish wasn’t there_.

Instantly, he forgot all of the sensible things he’d been saying to Star about how the military search-and-rescue people knew their business. He wriggled loose of the harness and went charging off to the tunnel Tej had indicated. She’d been saying something about _rising water_...

Ivan grabbed him and held him back. “Corps of Engineers. You just have to get out of their way.” And then he and Tej started asking all sorts of questions about what was going on up above, which was pretty clearly a distraction tactic, but By did his best to _let_ himself be distracted, since it was true that he couldn’t do anything useful. The engineers had sent in a sort of flying robot probe called Rover, which was supposed to home in on anything alive and then guide the survivors back.

“Is there really a fortune down here,” By asked, “or was Star exaggerating for fear we might not dig you out?”

“Look,” said Ivan, and opened a box of Time of Isolation seal-daggers. “Complete set.”

“ _Holy ..._ ” He picked one up, noting the weight of it in his hands, and the craftsmanship. “That’s ... extraordinary.”

“And that was just the first crate we opened. You should see some of the rest. Not to mention the half-ton or whatever it is of Occupation gold.”

Byerly stepped aside and called McSorley. “Seriously – tell them to get some more _guards_ up there – as many as they can spare. You heard what Star was saying about the gold? Well, it turns out it was the _understatement_ of the year.”

By the time he’d finished telling McSorley about the treasure, and about Ivan and Tej being alive and well, and about Vigo Imola and his goons, the robot probe was on its way back. He caught his breath, and reached out toward the dark shadows in the tunnel ...

“You rescued us!” cried Rish, flinging herself all over him. And then, a moment later, she took a step back and added, with compunction, “Oh, I’ve ruined your beautiful shirt!”

“Bugger my shirt, it was going out of style anyway. Are you hurt?”

“No, just cold. And wet and muddy,” she added, although that part kind of went without saying. (Truth be told, he _had_ been fond of the shirt.)

Her hands were _freezing_. He tried his best to warm them, and made sure she got on the first medevac floater, while he stayed below to help everyone onto the next few transports. By then everyone was a bit giddy with relief and fatigue, and Ivan and the remaining Arquas gave him a quick tour of the bunker, pointing out various exciting discoveries. The one that impressed him the most was a set of painted-glass goblets bearing the sigil of his great-great-grandfather, Pierre le Sanguinaire.

“We’ve been drinking out of them,” said Pearl, and then, magnanimously, “You can, too.”

“It’s filtered water,” added Amiri, who was dressed as a Cetagandan ghem-captain for some reason, “so I don’t _think_ it will give you dysentery. At any rate, if it does, the rest of us will have it too.”

“I, uh, think I can appreciate them sufficiently just by looking at them.”

“Oh, come on, where’s your sense of adventure?” asked Ivan.

“Not as developed as yours. Evidently.”

“I _hate_ adventure,” Ivan grumbled. “It isn’t my fault that I keep getting dragged into the ones _other_ people are having.”

* * *

After they had all been evacuated from the bunker, he accompanied the Arquas to ImpMil, where they were ostensibly going to be checked for trauma. Nobody seemed to be much interested in examining _Ivan_ , even though he’d presumably had the same traumatic experiences as the rest of the clan. Byerly inferred from this that the trip to the military hospital was mainly an excuse to keep them in a secured facility without actually arresting them, although he was genuinely worried about Rish, who was still shivering and had turned a darker shade of blue than usual. He snagged some hot tea and blankets from the nurses’ station and offered them to her and Jet, although he didn’t dare make any gestures that could be construed as _personal affection_.

Then most of the Arquas decided to complicate things by refusing to be examined by the Service medical staff and insisting that Amiri could provide any treatment that was required. Amiri himself seemed to have a more sensible attitude. “I don’t work at this hospital, Dada, I’m not licensed to practice medicine on Barrayar at all, and I’m theoretically here as a _patient_.”

Byerly mentally applauded this speech, although he could have done without the _theoretically_. Amiri also decided to offer more concrete help by following one of the medics into an exam room without a fuss. Rish followed his lead, and then the rest of the Jewels, at which point the remaining members of the family caved.

After that, he spent most of the day sitting around in waiting rooms, leafing through out-of-date magazines. Around midday, he got a call from Alain which relieved the tedium considerably.

“... So my comconsole screen seemed to be vibrating, and at first I thought it was just my eyes playing tricks because I hadn’t slept at all. But then I put a pen down on my desk, and it started _rolling_ , like the desk was tilted, only I knew it wasn’t, and then I realized it was the _floor_ that was tilted. And then I thought, oh shit, I think I’d better get out of here. A lot of other people were having the same idea, by the look of things. So we went out into the courtyard, and next thing I knew I’d been clipped on the back of the leg with a stone. They were _popping_ , just like corn. Only a lot less fluffy. So I started to run like hell, and then someone yelled to turn around and look, and then the building just _sank_.”

“Sank? What do you mean, _sank?_ ”

“Down into the earth. I’ve got to give your great-uncle credit, he did build it _solid_. It didn’t collapse or break apart or anything, it just ... went down.”

“ _Please_ tell me you took vids.”

“Of course.”

* * *

Toward evening, the Arquas were discharged from the hospital and taken to an empty, secured apartment in Lady Alys’s building, and Byerly was finally relieved of his charge. He went home, spent most of the night drinking coffee and writing an _epically_ long report, and then slept and slept and slept.


	23. The Offer

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the chapter where we hear again from a few OCs from way back; for anyone who wants a refresher, my cheat-sheet post is [here](http://a-t-rain.livejournal.com/285194.html).

There were several marathon debriefing sessions over the next few days, which took place at the Imperial Tax Audit building, since HQ was out of commission. The first one focused mostly on how he’d managed to lose an _entire family_ of surveillance subjects, and an exceptionally conspicuous family at that. He protested that he was only one person, and only human, and he had to sleep sometimes; moreover, he’d _requested_ backup, again and again, and had been roundly ignored. McSorley, miraculously, backed him up by producing a paper trail documenting those requests.

The next question that came up, however, was why he had failed to report that Simon Illyan had gone completely out of his mind and started making private Deals with exiled Jacksonian barons, and he hadn’t any good answer for that, other than “It was _Illyan_ , so every single one of you would have thought long and hard before reporting it too.” Luckily, everyone in the room seemed to realize that this was a reasonable point – except General Allegre, who was the one who _mattered_.

He took some consolation in the thought that Illyan was, probably at that very moment, on the receiving end of a marathon dressing-down of his own, from the only man in the Imperium who _could_ administer such a dressing-down. A man who – Ivan had once warned, and By had subsequently learned the hard way for himself – _hated_ to be blind-sided. He would have given anything to be a fly on the wall at _that_ meeting.

Allegre cut into his thoughts. “What are you smirking at, Vorrutyer? Are you under the impression that any aspect of this situation is _funny?_ ”

“No, sir,” he said quickly.

 _Then_ they wanted to know all about the exact nature of his relationship with Rish, and what had happened when, and why hadn’t he reported every single time he’d gone to bed with her, and every little argument, and every opinion she’d ever expressed in his presence. It went on and on, over more than one session, and finally it came to him that they didn’t really want to know about any of those things, they just wanted him to break down and admit he had feelings for her that weren’t in any way professional or sanctioned by ImpSec. All right. He _did._

It was the first time he’d ever been accused of emotional infidelity by a _government agency_ , and it made him feel, contrarily, that Lev Brodsky was right: ImpSec had been asking things of him that they had no right to ask. How long had that been going on, and why hadn’t it bothered him before now?

Then they told him, stony-faced, to go home and report back on the following day.

* * *

Almost everyone who had ever supervised him in his entire _career_ was sitting around the table when he arrived, all the way back to Lev Brodsky, and Captain Lenahan from training camp. (Major Lenahan, he corrected himself, checking the new set of tabs.) General Allegre was also there. _And_ the Emperor.

The papers and flimsies scattered over the table looked suspiciously like his entire personnel file. He kept trying to read them upside down, without much success.

“First of all, Vorrutyer,” said Allegre, “I wish to make it clear that after thorough investigation and discussion, I have concluded, and your supervising officers concur, that there is no evidence of any professional misconduct or negligence on your part. A few errors in judgment, perhaps. We all make them from time to time.”

“ _Thank_ you, sir,” he said, beginning to breathe again.

“In fact, the general opinion of everyone who has ever worked with you seems to be that your intelligence and powers of observation are exceptional, and they are joined to a strong sense of justice and remarkable perseverance and determination.”

“Thank you,” Byerly said again, a bit more cautiously. Praise from a senior ImpSec officer was rare, and it often came with a sting in its tail.

There it was. “These qualities seem to have led you, on a number of occasions, to undertake a variety of activities that weren’t really part of your job description. You seem to have an impressive number of commendations _and_ an even more impressive record of disciplinary violations to show for it.”

“Actually, sir, I think there are a few more commendations. I mean – my pay grade has generally gone _up_.”

Allegre held up a hand. “I wasn’t asking you to defend yourself, Vorrutyer. I was merely observing that your job description doesn’t seem to be a perfect match for your ... personal qualities. And in such cases, it’s usually easier to change the job description than the man.”

Then Allegre made him an offer, and he thought for a moment that he might have a heart attack and die right _then_.

“What,” he said when he could talk again, “... would be ... my responsibilities, exactly?”

“Intelligence work, for a start,” said Allegre. “Mostly, keeping tabs on Jacksonian Great Houses and their relationships to one another. Not so different from what you do now. Also, liaison between House Cordonah and the Imperium. And we would need you to maintain a safe house for our other downside agents on Jackson’s Whole. We have reason to believe that the Arquas would cooperate, since an alliance with the Barrayaran government would be very much in their best interests. Since you’d have to know our people’s identities in order to do that, that also means you’d be a logical primary contact for most of them. And there will undoubtedly be other duties as well, depending on the state of play on the Whole.”

“ _What_ other duties?” asked Byerly, privately thinking that Allegre had just described at least four full-time jobs already.

“We trust that you’ll figure that out when the time comes. We leave it to your discretion and judgment.”

 _But I don’t bloody well have any discretion or judgment! Haven’t any of these people told you anything about me?_ Saying _that_ to Allegre seemed like a bad idea, though, so he looked rather desperately at McSorley, whose _job_ it was to say that sort of thing.

“And your imagination and ingenuity,” said McSorley, with a very faint smile. “You’ve no shortage of _those_.”

“I’m a civilian, I haven’t taken the military oaths – and I think you need to know that I’ve never been in this for the _Imperium_ , as such.”

“We were aware of that.” Allegre gave Lenahan a curt nod; Lenahan tapped his comconsole screen, and a voice filled the room: _... so anyway, I suppose the real reason why I’m here is that I do care about truth, I think I care about it more than anything else there is ..._

His own voice. Twenty-six years old, in training camp, and under _fast-penta._

Emperor Gregor spoke for the first time. “It seems to Us that someone who cares about truth more than anything else might be exactly the person Jackson’s Whole needs the most.”

Good God, so they didn’t just want him to be a spy, or even the head of a spy ring. They wanted him to redeem an _entire fucking planet_. _You people don’t ask a lot, do you?_ But he couldn’t very well say _that_ , either, especially to the Emperor.

“You will, of course, need a suitable cover story to explain your departure with the Arqua family,” said McSorley. “We thought it would be best if you were wanted for collusion in their attempted theft of Barrayaran historical artifacts. You could, of course, be quietly pardoned after a few years, after which time you would be free to return to Barrayar. Your cousin the Count would no doubt cooperate in making it appear that the pardon was due to his influence.”

 _My cousin the Count was really hoping the family name would become synonymous with something other than bizarre scandals_ , thought Byerly.

“It would help, of course,” McSorley went on, “if you found the opportunity to do something that would give plausible cover for a pardon. Something public and meritorious.”

“How about public and _meretricious?_ I’ve got heaps more experience at that.”

Lev Brodsky shot him a look from across the table. “You said yourself you were sick of the life you were leading, Vorrutyer. This is your big chance to change everything.”

 _Yeah, but I’m not sure I’m ready for a change that big._ “What would happen if I said no?”

“They’d be standing you down for a while. That was going to happen anyway; it isn’t a punishment, it’s just that your cover’s very shaky since the Vorlynn incident. They might be able to use you later, depending on the circumstances. In the meantime, you’d get half-pay but full medical coverage, and you’d be free to take another job.”

Assuming, of course, that he could _find_ another job, given his lack of visible work history or qualifications. He didn’t suppose he’d be allowed to list Guy Allegre as a reference. Gossip columnist, perhaps? Fashion model? _Drug dealer?_ Now that Mick Vormeitner had been arrested, he figured there was a vacancy.

“If, on the other hand, you were to say yes,” said Allegre, “there would, of course, be a suitable increase in compensation, commensurate with the new risks and responsibilities you would be assuming.”

“How much?”

The sum took away his breath for a moment. Even _he_ couldn’t burn through that much.

“You would also, naturally, have the opportunity to continue your relationship with Mademoiselle Arqua. Lady Alys Vorpatril seemed to think that might be an additional inducement.”

“Does _Rish_ know about this?”

“She doesn’t even know she and her family aren’t going to be spending the rest of their lives in a Barrayaran prison. I would request that you not spoil the surprise.”

 _Do I love her?_ he wondered. _Enough to leave everything else I’ve ever loved behind?_ He wasn’t sure. How could anyone be sure after less than two months? But if he stayed, and never saw her again – no, _that_ thought didn’t feel right either.

He stalled for time. “If I’m going to be stuck on Jackson’s Whole for the indefinite future, I’m going to need a courier. Can I pick my own?”

“The man he’s going to pick is a _civilian_ ,” said McSorley. “A records office clerk with no galactic affairs experience. And, I might add, a wife and two young children.”

“Would this civilian records office clerk with two young children actually _object_ to the assignment?” asked the Emperor.

“Probably not,” McSorley admitted. “Not if he knew Vorrutyer had asked for him.”

“Then I am not sure any of those traits constitutes a serious impediment.”

“What happens ... here?” Byerly asked. “After I’m gone, I mean, who does my job?”

“Now, how many times do I have to tell you you’re not indispensable?” said Lev Brodsky. “We’ve already found a successor for you. Someone who already runs with the right crowd. Bit of a rush job on the training – they had to drag me out of retirement for some intense one-on-one, since there wasn’t time for the proper training-camp course – but this one seems clever enough to survive. It’s really _all_ on-the-job learning anyway, isn’t it?”

 _It must be someone I know, then._ “Did he – or she – pass the Brodsky test?”

“He passed the _Vorrutyer_ test. Namely, can you spot an ImpSec man at a party while you’re both stoned out of your brains on black-market fast-penta, and once you’ve done it, do you come to the right people with the information instead of selling it to your host, who would _very much_ like to know? I don’t think they’ll be adopting it as a regular screening device for new agents, but in this case it served.”

“Evon Margraves?” Byerly hazarded.

“The same,” said Brodsky. “He was pretty concerned for your safety. It took them a while to convince him that Lex Vorlynn _wasn’t_ likely to know _Othello_ half as well as _he_ did. Do you want to talk to him before you go?”

“All right.” Byerly wasn’t sure exactly when he’d said _yes_ to the offer, but he supposed his answer was, in fact, _yes_.

“You’ve got an appointment with the medics first. I’ll ask him to stop by when you finish.”

“One last thing, Vorrutyer.” McSorley flipped through his stack of flimsies. “We were, ah, discussing your psych profile before you came in, and I noticed that it says you’re _acrophobic_.”

“Does it? Yes, that’s correct.”

“Why didn’t you _say_ anything about it the other night?”

“It ... didn’t seem relevant. Not under the circumstances.”

“I see.”

* * *

The ImpSec medical staff gave him a quick-and-ruthlessly-efficient physical, handed him what looked like several years’ supply of his heart meds, vaccinated him against half a dozen galactic diseases he’d never heard of in his life, and certified him fit for extended off-world travel. Then they shoved a consent form in front of him.

He read it and looked up. “What happens if I don’t sign?”

“Mission aborted. Your new posting is classified as _high risk for abduction_ , which means you’d be putting others at risk.”

He signed.

It didn’t hurt much; there was a bit of soreness and swelling afterward, no worse than a bug bite. It didn’t feel very weighty, not like something that meant _no one can ever force you to betray the Imperium now_ ; or, looked at another way, _you will never again be able to prove that you are telling the truth_.

* * *

“Good luck, Evon.”

“Thanks. I think it’ll be fun.”

_Oh, Evon, do you have any idea what you’re getting into? Have you thought about how badly you’ll disappoint your family – that bright, bright young Margraves boy who never came to anything, just partied it all away? Do you know that some part of you, the wrong part, will have to stay twenty-three forever, and that eternal youth isn’t all that it’s cracked up to be? Do you know that you will lie to your dearest friends, that you will come to care for the people you must betray, that you will feel more desperately lonely than you can imagine? Did they tell you any of that?_

Byerly did not tell him. “And ... thank you for looking after me.”

“No problem.”

“Are you and Katya still ...”

“Oh, Katya.” Evon waved his hand, as if to signify that Katya was not remotely important. “Nope. Not any more.”

“Good. It’s ... easier that way. If you have fewer entanglements in your life, I mean.” (Not that he was exactly taking his own advice. His new position was going to be so _weird_.)

“I didn’t ever really care for her anyway, I don’t think. It was more ... like being with her was sort of a way out, a way of _not_ having to be the good son who did everything right.” Evon chewed on his lower lip and gazed off into the middle distance. “You know, when my father threatened to disinherit me, I think it clarified a few things for me – because I realized I didn’t _want_ to spend the rest of my life designing women’s dresses. My sister will be much better at it than I am, anyway.”

“I ... think I would have picked the dresses, had I been given the choice. I would have been _good_ at that.”

Evon smiled. “Well, we’re all different, aren’t we?”

* * *

“So,” Byerly said to McSorley, “what are you going to do now that you don’t have me to order around any more?”

“They offered me my old training-officer position back. I thought about it. I _liked_ teaching, you know.”

“You were good at it. I don’t think I appreciated _how_ good, at the time.”

McSorley snorted. “You _definitely_ didn’t appreciate it at the time.”

“So. Back to dealing with the callow, reckless, and ungrateful?”

“No. I’m a twenty-year man, and I don’t see the Service giving me any opportunities for advancement. I put in for retirement right after our meeting. Effective as of ... right now, actually. I don’t even need time to clean my desk out, seeing as how it’s six meters underground at the moment.”

“Oh.” Somehow, he was having a hard time wrapping his head around the idea of ImpSec without McSorley.

“I’ve decided it’s time for a new career. One where my politics will be an asset instead of a liability.”

“If you’re telling me you’re quitting to become a _revolutionary_ , I’m afraid I might have to report it.”

“Only the strictly legal, boring, day-job sort of revolutionary. Count Vorrutyer’s offered me a full-time staff position. Research and communications, a bit of speechwriting. I’ve accepted.”

“Admit it, McSorley. You’ll miss me, so you picked the next closest person you could find.”

“Like hell. Your cousin’s not _insane_.”

“Neither am I. You ought to know that, you’ve been reading my psych profile.”

“ _They_ seem to be under the impression that you are almost completely normal. _I_ have worked with you day in and day out for thirteen years, and I know better.”

“So,” said Byerly, utterly _astonished_ by what he was about to say. “It’s traditional for a retiring officer’s subordinates to buy him a drink, isn’t it?”

“When are you going to find the _time_ , Vorrutyer?”

“You know me. I can _always_ find time for a drink,” said By, although actually, that was an excellent question.

“Invite Anderson. I’m curious to see what your usual rendezvous point is like.”

* * *

“It’s ... not quite what I pictured,” said McSorley, contemplating the two men necking at the end of the bar with an I-am-totally-not-comfortable-here-but-I’m-going-to-try-anyway sort of expression. “Quieter. Well. Suppose I’d better get used to it.”

Ah. _Your kid’s six, I wouldn’t be making any assumptions just yet._ (Granted, people had started making assumptions about _By_ when he was about six, and they’d turned out to be half-right, but still.) _McSorley’s trying_ , he reminded himself. _My father never tried_.

“I’ve just remembered, I’ve got something for Leon.” He took the package out of his coat pocket.

“You know, Vorrutyer, it’s usual to buy Winterfair gifts for _all_ the kids in a family, not just one of them.”

“This isn’t a Winterfair gift, it’s an I’m-sorry-your-brothers-flushed-your-hat gift. If Karl and Friedrich get jealous, tell them to let Leon flush _their_ hat, and then maybe things will be even.”

McSorley rolled his eyes a little, but accepted the package. “You were right about Leon and that school, by the way. He hates it. We’re putting him in a different one after the holidays.”

They were interrupted by Alain’s arrival. He’d obviously been given the news about the courier position already, because he was flushed with excitement and said, as soon as they had drinks in hand, “Next time on Jackson’s Whole, hmm?”

“Anderson,” said McSorley, giving him a searching look. “You’re – all right with this new assignment?”

“I think it's _great_. I’ve never had the chance to _travel_ before.”

McSorley gave Byerly an even more searching look. “Did _you_ know he’d feel that way about it?”

“Of course I did. That was why I requested him.”

“Oh. It’s – a bit different from what we’d been discussing, Anderson.”

“I know. But getting that to happen was a long shot. And really, I’d rather have this.”

“What?” asked By.

“McSorley’s been trying to get them to take me on in Analysis for ages,” said Alain. “But the general mindset over there is that analysts who haven’t taken the military oaths are too much of a security risk, and if I had the brains for it, I’d have been admitted to the Service Academy in the first place.”

“ _Analysis?_ ” ImpSec analysts were scary-brilliant. Alain was just ... Alain.

“He’s got the right sort of mind,” said McSorley. “Better than yours. Lenahan and I both saw it when the two of you were in training.”

“But I beat him on all the exams,” said Byerly, before he could stop himself.

McSorley looked at him and shook his head. “Why do you think this schools law _matters_ , Vorrutyer?”

He looked down, face burning, and then forced himself to look up. Alain was smiling at him, a little, from across the table, with a look in his blue eyes that said, more plainly than words, _It’s all right, By, I’ve been having great fun wondering how long it would take you to notice._

* * *

McSorley offered him a ride home afterward. He would just as soon have taken the bubble-tube and had a bit longer to say goodbye to Alain, but something in his old handler’s look suggested that he wanted a private conversation.

“So,” said McSorley quietly, once they were alone in the car. “The state of the Vorpennick investigation. I thought you’d want to know.”

Byerly nodded, feeling in the pit of his stomach that he _very much_ did not want to know.

“We think it’s arms-running on a very small scale. She’s been buying up quite a few weapons of late, antiques that are still functional. None of which she’s put on sale in her shop. We weren’t watching her before you tipped us off, but if she’s been doing it since she divorced Philippe, she might have quite the arsenal by now. And it seems that she’s got ties with a group calling itself the Greco-Barrayaran Social Justice Alliance that we _have_ been watching, for quite a while.”

Of _course_ it would be Greekie radicals. In the bohemian circles that Sylvie inhabited, the general feeling was that they had a very good _point_. _When people do that sort of thing on a much larger scale_ , he thought rebelliously, _we call it Beta and have diplomatic relations with it._

“Is there any chance they’ll swoop now? While it might still be a lesser charge than treason?” Byerly asked, knowing full well what the answer would be. Standard ImpSec procedure was to let suspects _run_ until they’d run all the way into the noose.

“They wouldn’t get her on _any_ charge if they swooped now. There’s no law against _talking_ to Greek peasants with radical views. Nor one against collecting old-fashioned but still serviceable weapons – as long as you’re Vor. Legally speaking, the woman is still innocent.”

 _As long as you’re Vor_. Oh, damn, that would have been _enough_ for Sylvie, wouldn’t it? She wouldn’t even have had to be down with their cause, particularly; the mere fact that she _could_ stockpile weapons legally and they _couldn’t_ would have been enough to convince her that she was serving justice if she helped them out.

“If they swooped now, they might keep her that way. You know, prevent the crime before it’s actually _committed_.”

“Not ImpSec’s modus operandi, as you well know. They’ll be watching her and monitoring her communications until they have proof.”

 _But you’re not ImpSec any more_ , Byerly thought, _you could see that Sylvie gets tipped off. But from your point of view, she’s just a privileged Vor woman playing at being radical, so I don’t suppose you’d bother._

“Remember that you’re not officially need-to-know on any of this, by the way. You didn’t hear it from me.”

 _Oh_. It occurred to Byerly, suddenly, that McSorley might know him better than _anyone else on the planet_ , and that “innocent” hadn’t been an accidental choice of words. “I guess I haven’t heard it at all, then.”

“Good idea.”


	24. Leave-Taking

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A few lines of dialogue in the Star Chamber scene are taken directly from _Captain Vorpatril's Alliance_.

After Byerly got home, he tried to pack. It was insane. He knew he would need a toothbrush, and enough cat food to sustain Contraband for several weeks, but beyond that, he didn’t have a _clue_ what was necessary when you moved to a new planet, and what you could survive without. He remembered Jackson’s Whole was supposed to have a very cold climate, and filled three whole suitcases with neatly packed winter clothes before he realized that might be overkill. Who knew what the fashions would be like there, anyway? Maybe you really needed to be a _monk_ to move to a new planet. Someone non-materialistic, anyway. Someone who wasn’t _him_.

He tried to look up some other things about Jackson’s Whole on the comconsole, but then he got distracted, and ended up buying an entire _library_ of books about the place to load onto his reader. All right, so he was definitely taking his reader. Paper books were probably out. Except ones he was _very_ attached to. He contemplated his bookshelves for some time, in stupefaction.

Finally he gave up, packed a shoulder bag with the bare necessities for the journey, and decided to sort the rest out later. He gave his landlord notice, and called a moving-and-storage company and made an appointment for them to box up everything he left in the flat and haul it away. Then he went to Dono’s.

“I can’t stay long, but I wanted to stop in. I might not be able to be with you at Winterfair, after all, so I thought I’d drop off some gifts for you and the baby. Also, there are going to be some people coming by my flat at around nine in the morning, three days from now. Could you send someone around with your spare key so they can get in?”

Dono looked slightly perplexed, but nodded.

The house smelled like freshly baked Winterfair cookies, buttery hazelnut crescents dusted with powdered sugar. Byerly tried to decline, as he’d just eaten, thought better of it, and accepted a small box to take home – or rather, to take away. They might be the last hazelnut cookies he’d get. Ever.

Charles Clement had already been put to bed, but Dono and Olivia said he could look in. The little Vorrutyer heir was growing longer, more toddler than infant now. Byerly touched the fine, dark hair very lightly, and turned away before the child could wake.

“By the way,” he asked his cousin, making his voice as casual as possible, “are you going to talk to Julia at Winterfair?”

Dono froze. “Yes,” he said after a moment.

“Good,” he said as he pulled his coat on. “Give her my best. Good night.”

“I’ll walk with you. Just for a block or two,” said Dono, his voice hollow. He didn’t think to put his own coat on until By reminded him. Max followed them out the door.

“How bad is it, By?” he asked quietly, once they were away from the house.

“Not as bad as you’re probably thinking. Nor as bad as you might hear. Whatever you do hear ... I want you to know that it was a choice. A difficult choice, but one that I’m reasonably happy about.”

“Am I ... going to have to explain to Julia that you died a hero, and all that?”

“No. _Definitely_ not. I’m not planning on dying, at least not prematurely.” There was, he supposed, a chance that one of the Arquas might decide to assassinate a somewhat-unwelcome resident spy – he didn’t think any of the senior members of the family would be so stupid, but he’d be watching his back around Star and Pidge – but he trusted he could look out for himself. “You ... just might not see me for a while.” _Maybe forever_. “And ... I’m not going to be much help on the rehabilitating-the-family-reputation front. I thought I’d better give you fair warning about that.”

“That’s all right, By. _I_ know who you are.”

 _You always knew_ , he thought. _Even before I knew it myself._ Donna had never, _ever_ treated him as the family disgrace, even when he was twenty-two and headed down the short road to hell. “Thank you. And – I’ll write to you. I think I can promise my letters will be entertaining.”

“I’ll look forward to them.” They stopped under one of the streetlights. They had never been the _hugging_ sort of cousins; but Dono gave him a clap on the shoulder that turned into a more lingering half-embrace. “Good luck, little cousin, wherever you’re going.”

“Thanks ... I’m sorry I won’t get to watch CeeCee grow up. But, you know, maybe one of these days he’ll have a little cousin of his own to look after.”

“I’m sure he’ll like that. Goodbye.”

“Goodbye.”

He gave Max a last scratch behind the ears – it occurred to him that he would almost certainly see Dono face to face again, but would probably never see Max – and walked on without looking back. He had not gone far before Dono’s footsteps and the click of Max’s toenails became indistinct and faded into the sounds of the night.

There was a school a block ahead, and the cheap, prepaid wristcom he’d bought for Rish was still in his coat pocket. Without removing his gloves, he flicked the back of it open and disabled the locator chip. Then, standing under the eaves of the school, he placed a call.

“Sylvie, you’re being watched. Put the weapons up for sale, make sure they go to legitimate buyers, and don’t try anything like that ever again.”

“What? Who –”

He cut the com before she could say anything more, since he didn’t trust her not to recognize his voice and blurt out his name. He hoped the voice distortion field had done its work, and it would take ImpSec a few days to identify the wristcom, by which time he’d be long gone. Anyway, he’d paid cash for it, in another one of those busy little shops where nobody remembered any of the customers, and some weeks had passed. They’d trace it back as far as the shop, but after that the trail would go cold.

He wiped the com as clean as he could, and then threw it in the river and watched it sink. Even if someone found it by chance, the chances that they’d get any identifiable fingerprints or DNA off of it were close to zero.

But the com didn’t matter much, he realized as he walked home. He could be as careful as he liked, but it would be _obvious_ who had tipped Sylvie off if McSorley had told anyone about their conversation that afternoon. It was quite possible that McSorley was still ImpSec’s man and had set the whole thing up: one final test before trusting a notoriously erratic civilian operative with a delicate off-world assignment, which By had just conclusively failed. That was how ImpSec _worked_ , most of the time.

But he didn’t think so. He knew how Eugene McSorley worked, and he was pretty sure that McSorley was his own man.

* * *

Byerly half-expected somebody to stop him when he escorted the Arquas to the Residence the next day: _we know what you did, you’re compromised, you’re fired_. They didn’t.

He held his breath all through the Star Chamber hearing, silently willing the Arquas not to do anything to screw up a very favorable Deal. That didn’t happen, either. Pidge demanded a ten-percent finders’ fee, which was _audacious_ on the surface of it, but upon reflection, exactly right. The Emperor quite plainly wanted a stable ally on the Whole, and he wasn’t going to get one if the Arquas couldn’t scrounge up enough cash to finance a small war.

Then the Emperor informed Shiv about Byerly’s new role, describing him as a _gift I mean to give to take with you_ , and it hit him for the first time that this was actually _real_ , and he was going away to live on a planet run by _mobsters_ for the indefinite future, and if _his_ particular family of mobsters decided they didn’t care for his presence, they could just – what was the term used by jump-ship pirates? – _space_ him. Granted, that would mean the end of Barrayar as their silent backer. Once ImpSec noticed he wasn’t making his reports any more. He hoped.

Rish turned around in her seat, looking astonished. But not, he trusted, displeased.

“It’ll all be ... new,” he said.

She looked him over. No, _definitely_ not displeased. “I could probably help you out with that, By. Reciprocity, after all.” The Baron had turned to look at them; she met his eyes, and By was pretty sure he recognized a _Da, if he’s following us home, we may as well keep him_ look. Good, at least he’d have one reliable ally.

The Star Chamber adjourned for a brief coffee break while Shiv and Udine Arqua conferred privately. Meanwhile, Byerly tried to pump Amiri for information about men’s fashions on Jackson’s Whole, but since Amiri was a scientist, his conversation on this point was not very enlightening. “Pretty much everyone wears trousers,” he offered. “And a shirt.”

“Yes. I understand that’s usual on most planets. What _kind_ of trousers and shirts?”

Amiri looked blank. “Ones that fit?” he suggested after a moment.

He didn’t get a chance to talk to Jet, who looked like he might _understand_ about such things, before the Star Chamber was called back to order, so he resigned himself to packing on instinct and guesswork. Anyway, he thought happily, he could always acquire a new wardrobe once he got to Jackson’s Whole. His new position came with an _expense account_.

The Baron and Baronne informed the Emperor that they accepted the Deal. “Emperor Gregor,” the Baron added, “I do have one purely private favor to ask. May I have the pleasure of informing the man known as Vigo Imola of the estimated valuation of the contents of the bunker – in person?”

The Emperor, it seemed, was in a generous mood, because not only did Shiv get permission for a visit to Imola’s cell, but Byerly found himself instructed to be a fly on the wall. He wouldn’t have missed this for _worlds_.

* * *

“Hello, Vigo,” said the Baron courteously. “Nice to see you again. Though the venue is a bit of a comedown. Not nearly as pleasant as that office of yours.”

Imola growled something unintelligible, obviously trying to work out why Shiv wasn’t on the same side of the bars as _he_ was.

“I don’t believe you’ve met our girl Rish’s young man. One of the Emperor’s people. On the whole, the Emperor’s turned out to be very reasonable about the whole affair.”

While none of these statements was strictly _inaccurate_ , By could not help feeling that they were being put together in rather misleading ways.

“And, as my daughter, Baronette Sofia Paloma, pointed out, under Barrayaran law we were entitled to a finder’s fee. You know, I grumbled a bit about how much we were paying to send her to law school, but I think we got a fair return on the investment.” Shiv paused for effect before delivering the coup de grace. “Three-hundred-and-ninety-million Barrayaran marks, or approximately one hundred million Betan dollars. Minus, ah, some trifling amount in damages.”

“ _Fuck me_ ,” said Imola, in a strangled voice.

“Oh, I think it’s safe to say you fucked yourself,” said the Baron, his voice still blandly pleasant. “Well, we all bet on the wrong side from time to time. Better luck next time, eh? If there is a next time. By-the-by, I hope you thought to send one of _your_ daughters to law school while you had the chance.”

Imola had more or less crumpled in on himself; he didn’t even look up for the Baron’s parting shot.

“As you may have gathered, we won’t be buying that island just yet. We’re going home.”

* * *

“That was ... beautiful, sir,” said Byerly as he got back behind the wheel of the groundcar ImpSec had lent them. “Truly.”

Shiv waved a hand. “It was _not_ as satisfying as dealing with him myself would have been, but at least I gather your government is likely to keep him locked up for several decades.”

“Do you mind if we stop by my flat on the way back? I need to pack up a few more things. And my cat. He’s coming with me.” It seemed best to present this to the Arquas as a fact that was not open to dispute.

“We’ve never had a cat before,” said the Baron, a little dubiously. “Am I right in thinking they’re predatory animals?”

“He eats mice sometimes, yeah.”

The Baron looked even more dubious. “Does he require _live_ mice? Because Udine, as I’m sure you’ve noticed, is a woman of delicate sensibilities, and most of the children take after her...”

As far as By could tell, Baronne Cordonah’s sensibilities were about as delicate as those of a Tyrannosaurus Rex, but he hastened to reassure the Baron. “Oh, no, _definitely_ not. Most of the time, he eats cat food. They make it with vat-protein nowadays.”

“Oh, just like a tame lion,” said Shiv with relief. “We’ve never had one of those either, but there was quite a vogue for them on the Whole about fifteen years back.”

“Yes,” said By, blinking a little. “Just like a tame lion, only a _much_ more convenient size.”

He felt as if he ought to be having a conversation with the Baron about something other than cats, but he was damned if he even knew _what_ they should be saying to each other, let alone how to broach the subject. He was definitely conscious of being _assessed_ , however, a feeling which intensified after he pulled up at his building. Shiv offered to help with the packing, affably enough, but By was very sure that his possessions and the probable state of his finances were being inventoried. The only comment he offered, however, was about one of the photos Byerly had belatedly decided he didn’t want to leave behind. “Your cousin the Count?”

“Yes.”

“Are you close?”

“Yes.”

“He’s got a baby, I see.”

Byerly discovered that he did not like this turn in the conversation at _all_. He was half-tempted to deny CeeCee’s existence ( _no, this is just a borrowed baby, on Barrayar we lease them out for special occasions_ ), but settled for saying, “I’ve got quite a few cousins, actually. My father is the youngest of five.” It so happened that the other four were dead, two of them in rather spectacular circumstances and without issue, but it seemed best to imply the existence of as many bodies between himself and the Countship as possible.

“Bad luck,” remarked Shiv.

 _Oh, you don’t know the half of it,_ By thought. _If you’re thinking of assassinating any of them, may I offer some suggestions about where to start?_

“One of the great things about Jackson’s Whole,” the Baron continued, “is that you’re _never_ limited by the circumstances of your birth. It’s a complete meritocracy.”

 _Huh, so you’re not offering to assassinate any of my relatives, you’re just ... trying to sell me a planet you don’t actually possess at the moment?_ Well, that was ... odd, but mostly a relief.

* * *

After By had stuffed the last bits of his former life into the back of the groundcar, they rendezvoused with the rest of the family at Lady Alys’s, where the others had been enjoying a farewell lunch.

“Good luck, dear,” said Lady Alys, after the Arquas had trooped downstairs to pack. “I told them, you know, that I thought you would do very well, as long as you didn’t do anything foolish. Don’t disappoint me. And thank you.”

“Is that ‘thank you for your thirteen years of loyal and intermittently arduous service,’ or ‘thank you for finally getting Ivan married off’?”

“Don’t be fresh,” said Lady Alys shortly. Byerly grinned. Of _course_ it was thank you for getting Ivan married off.

* * *

“Goodbye,” said Ivan, and then, “Oh, hey.”

“What?”

“Drop me a line every now and again, will you? Just so I know they haven’t, you know.”

“Killed me and eaten me?”

“Yeah. Because you might annoy them enough to make them do that. Because you’re _that_ sort of person.”

“Ivan-my-love, while I’ve no doubt that your undying-though-strictly-platonic affection for me transcends words, your mode of _expressing_ it leaves something to be desired ... Oh, never mind. Will do.” Ivan had unexpectedly squeezed him on the shoulder, and _huh_ , maybe there was some truth behind that bit of piffle, after all.

* * *

The Barrayarans had loaned them a jump pilot and enough of a crew to keep Vormercier’s ship running, but no cook or cleaning crew. The Baronne sniffed a bit, and told Rish to see whether she could do something about dinner. Rish decided not to point out that the Baronne’s _first_ reaction to the news that she and Tej had been taking cooking lessons had been to scold them for doing servants’ work. That had been two weeks ago, and almost everything had changed since then. _We’re on our way home, we’re on our way home, we’re going home!_ She felt like singing, and then she remembered that they were going home without her baby sister, and swallowed heavily.

A little investigation revealed that the ship’s galley was well-stocked with fresh vegetables and non-perishable staples, as well as several vacuum-sealed packages of vat-grown chicken. _Excellent._

Once the others had finished stowing everyone’s possessions in the appropriate cabins, she pressed By and Amiri into service, since they were the only ones likely to be remotely useful in the kitchen. She stole the occasional glance at Byerly while he chopped vegetables. He was playing his hand the right way, she thought, being unobtrusively and uncomplainingly helpful. The Baron would approve. He’d also adopted exactly the right set of manners for dealing with the Baronne and Grandmama, courteous but not obsequious. _Manipulating people is his job_ , she reminded herself. Undoubtedly, her relatives were also aware of that fact, but she dared to hope that they would all rub along well enough.

If he noticed that she was watching him, he didn’t show it. He was clearly trying to avoid expressing any feelings about the situation at all, but it wasn’t possible to hide everything from Rish. She could detect apprehension, but not anger. Good. What she _couldn’t_ gauge – hadn’t been able to gauge at all in their few moments together since the bunker – was how he felt about _her_ at the moment. They’d have a chance to talk in private later, she reminded herself. Her parents and siblings had taken it for granted that they were going to be sharing a cabin, and she hadn’t been sure how to say _I don’t have any idea what our relationship status is right now, actually_. They could surely manage a businesslike roommate arrangement for the space of the journey.

She took the chicken out of the oven; Byerly raided Vormercier’s stock of wine; and the whole clan sat down to a very creditable dinner. They were joined by the ImpSec analyst and the doctoral student in history that the Barrayarans had sent along with them for the first leg of the journey. The ImpSec analyst had been seated in the place of honor next to Moira, who proceeded to bore him with reminiscences from a century before, despite his best efforts to turn the conversation to more contemporary topics. The grad student, at the far end of the table, nearly fell out of his chair trying to lean over far enough to catch what they were saying.

“Is your grandmother, perchance, confused about which of them is which?” By murmured in her ear.

“No,” said Rish, “she knows exactly which of them is which.”

“Ah.” He was plainly torn between sympathy for his colleague and schadenfreude at seeing someone _else_ get the Arqua runaround for once. To judge by the expression playing about his lips, schadenfreude was winning.

* * *

The walls and ceiling of their cabin were painted with nymphs and satyrs in anatomically improbable positions. In the hands of a different artist, it might have passed for a classical theme; by no stretch of the imagination could _this_ rendition be considered anything but pure pornography.

“You _were_ warned about the decor,” said Byerly, who was trying not to crack up laughing.

“No, we weren’t. Not properly. It has to be seen to be believed.”

He shut the door of their cabin, coaxed a slightly traumatized Contraband out of his hiding place under the lower bunk, and sat down. “Well. I think this is the first time we’ve been properly alone since ... I don’t even know when.”

“Since that day we had that argument about ... oh, something or other. I guess it must have been about you doing your _job_ , because I think that’s all we ever argued about. It seems a million years ago now.”

“We’ve not actually settled that argument, have we?”

She sat down next to him. “As far as I’m concerned, we settled it that morning in the bunker.”

He nodded. “No reason to take it up again, I don’t think. Still. It’s been a strange few days. I feel a bit, I don’t know...”

“Horse-traded?”

He gave a small snort of appreciation. “I was thinking more along the lines of ‘disoriented.’ But yes, that too.”

Contraband had been sniffing about the cabin and flicking his whiskers. He seemed to deem it acceptable, and jumped up on Byerly’s lap. Byerly dutifully began to rub and stroke, reducing Contraband to a boneless, purring heap of ecstasy.

 _Oh._ She _missed_ being touched by those hands. She decided that a _businesslike roommate arrangement_ would not be acceptable, after all.

“... I’m sorry?” she tried after a moment.

He looked up in surprise. “What for?”

“For, uh, trying to loot your planet?”

His eyebrows quirked upward in amusement. “Well, it’s not really _my_ planet, unless the Emperor and a few dozen other people have all been assassinated since this afternoon.”

“And for not telling you about it.”

“Ah. Yes. Well, I would, of course, have reported it. And I will still be obligated to report it, should anyone in your family get any more ideas about doing ... anything that would need to be reported. Those are the basic facts of my position, and they aren’t going to change. Can we live with them, I wonder?” He was looking levelly at her, entirely serious. She liked it when he was serious. She liked that he’d said _we_.

“I’d rather live with them than without them. They’re part of who you _are_.” _And I want to live with you, forever and ever and ever._

“Good. I ... didn’t ever expect to meet anyone who felt that way. Thank you.”

The words were right, but his hands were still being much too _private_. “Hey. You’re allowed to touch me, you know.”

“I didn’t know. What you wanted, I mean.” He reached out and closed his hand over hers. A pleasant shiver ran up her arm. Cautiously at first, and then with growing enthusiasm, he edged nearer, slipped an arm around her waist, and started exploring. Mmm. She’d missed kissing him, too.

“‘S been two weeks,” he said, when he came up for air. “Too long.”

“More comfortable position?” she suggested, kicking her shoes off and stretching out on the bunk.

“Mmm. _Yes_.”

They were settling into a very comfortable position indeed when Pearl and Emerald burst into the cabin. Luckily, no clothes had been removed as yet. “Hey!” protested Rish. “Do you people ever think of _knocking?_ ”

“Oh, sorry,” said Pearl, looking distinctly unrepentant. “We didn’t realize you were ... busy.” She and Em both broke into giggles. “We were just coming to see whether you had any interesting murals in your cabin. I see you _do_.”

“Um, yes,” said Rish, fixing them with her steeliest glare until they stopped giggling. “What do you have in yours?”

“ _Centaurs_ ,” said Em, with a roll of her eyes. “Doing _unspeakable_ things.”

“You know how some people have foot fetishes?” Byerly explained. “Well, Theo Vormercier had a _hoof_ fetish.”

Pidge emerged from the next cabin down the corridor and wailed, “I will never, _ever_ think about unicorns the same way again.”


	25. Hostage Negotiation is the Family Business (Redux)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whew. Last chapter. Thanks to everyone who has read, commented, or left kudos. I've been working on this for well over a year, so it's been a real tour de force, and I'm immensely grateful for all the encouragement.
> 
> I wrote an Amiri-backstory ficlet, which you can find here: [Magnetism and Gravitation](http://archiveofourown.org/works/5617924). For By's PoV on the negotiations with the Baron and Baronne, see the original [Hostage Negotiation Is the Family Business](http://archiveofourown.org/works/3275018).
> 
> In response to a couple of requests in the comment threads, I've also put up an [LJ post](http://a-t-rain.livejournal.com/292515.html) about the various Shakespeare quotes in Chapter 7.

Rish spent much of the trip to Komarr being unromantically jump-sick. The Barrayaran government had supplied them with a military jump pilot and a crew who would take them as far as the borders of the empire; but either the pilot was inexperienced, or (more likely) the engineering on Theo Vormercier’s ship left _much_ to be desired. It was the roughest sequence of jumps she had ever endured, and although she took her tablets faithfully, they didn’t seem to help much this time.

She had been curled up in her bunk, a tight little ball of wretchedness, for about half a day when By began to look earnestly _worried_. She hadn’t been able to eat, which always made her weak and shaky.

“You need to drink something, at least. How about some ginger tea? That usually helps.”

She nodded, mutely.

* * *

Amiri was lying on one of the sofas in the lounge area, looking limp and grumpy. He obviously wasn’t as ill as Rish if he could get up, but it seemed to be a near thing.

“You’re one of those awful people who never get jump-sick, aren’t you? Like our father?”

“‘Fraid so. I was going to make Rish some ginger tea, do you want any?” Luckily, someone had thought to provide the ship with a generous supply. Byerly suspected it had been Lady Alys, rather than Vormercier.

“Please. Could you make some for Jet and Em and Pearl, too? Put lots of sugar in for all of them. Not so much in mine. Has Rish been taking her jump-sickness tablets?”

“She took the maximum dose, but I don’t think it’s doing much good.”

“Is she puking all over your cabin?”

“Nope. Just huddled up being miserable.”

“Then trust me, they’re doing some good. Give her a few extras. I’ve been eating them like candy myself.”

“That’s all right, then? That’s what _I_ told her to do, but she’s one of those weird people who actually _reads_ the directions on medicine bottles.”

“As opposed to...?” 

“Mixing ‘em all up and seeing what happens, and then taking a few more for good measure.” 

“I won't say I endorse your method as a general rule, but the jump-sickness tablets are basically harmless even if a regular person exceeds the dose, and with the Jewels’ metabolic enhancements and sensory issues, they’ll definitely need more.” Amiri added, rather grumpily, “I wish Mama’d had the sense to consult a professional who would give _proper_ medical advice when she was designing them.” (Amiri, By had noticed, was the only one of the Arqua children who did _not_ habitually refer to their mother as “The Baronne.”) 

“Like you?” 

Amiri smiled ruefully. “Well, I _was_ only two months old when she was putting the finishing touches on Rish, so I guess I wouldn’t have been much help. But really, _anybody_ should have been able to see that those two kinds of enhancement don’t _go_ together.” 

“I don’t. Enlighten me?” 

“Sensory enhancements mean motion sickness, and especially jump-sickness. The Jewels are fine if they’re moving under their own power – that’s why they can do all those fancy flips and spins – but introduce some dissonance between what the body is doing and what the inner ear perceives, and it gets really ugly really fast. And the metabolism thing is all very well and good when it means you can stuff yourself without getting fat, but it's a real problem when you can’t eat at _all_. Try to get some food into her as soon as she’s able to face it. Protein, for choice.” 

_* * *_

Byerly was back again, gripping her firmly but gently by the shoulder and offering her some more jump-sickness tablets. “Amiri said taking a few over the maximum dose wouldn’t do you any harm. He thought it would be advisable, actually.” 

“Thanks.” Rish swallowed a few more of the tablets and took a cautious sip of tea. “I’m sorry. This can’t be much fun for you.” 

“Worse for you. Don’t worry about me.” 

He hadn’t, in fact, seemed to be all that bored; mostly, he’d been curled up at the foot of her bunk whenever she opened her eyes, absorbed in his reader. (She shuddered at the thought of _reading_ , but By appeared to be impervious to jump-sickness.) 

“What have you been reading?” 

“All about Jackson’s Whole. It sounds like ... an interesting place.” 

“Are you reading any books by _Jacksonians_ , or just what other people have to say _about_ us?” 

“Both. Which is more likely to be accurate, I wonder?” 

“Neither.” 

“That was what I thought.” 

_* * *_

They had a day-long layover at Komarr, long enough for the Arquas to make the final arrangements for hiring the new crew who would be joining them at Pol Station, for everyone to gorge themselves silly at the station’s best restaurant before Amiri transferred to a courier flight to Escobar, and for By to rendezvous with his new supervisor, Captain Morozov. He wasn’t sure how much _supervision_ was likely to go on, what with Morozov being halfway across the Nexus, and the meeting itself reassured him that Morozov was, for an ImpSec officer, _remarkably_ easygoing. 

“What sort of information am I supposed to be gathering, exactly?" 

“Oh, anything,” said Morozov cheerfully. 

“Anything?” 

“We’ve never had an embedded man in a Great House before. Field agents on the ground, yes, and the consulate on Fell Station – the entire consular staff are ours, by the way, and they’ll have your back if things go pear-shaped – but nobody who’s been in a trusted position with one of the Barons.” 

“I’m not sure I’m any such thing. Not the _trusted_ part.” 

Morozov waved a hand. “ _Close_ to one of the Barons, anyway. I want – We want to know how it all _works_.” 

“How _what_ works?” 

“Jackson’s Whole.” 

_Well, see, it orbits around a star, and there’s enough gravity to maintain a breathable atmosphere, and a magnetic field so everyone doesn’t die from radiation_ ... He bit his tongue, hard, and waited for Morozov to enlighten him further. 

“Politics, culture, society, everything. The place is a grand mystery, at least at the levels where the Barons operate. _All_ information is gold.” 

He detected the telltale gleam of an enthusiast in Morozov’s eye, and began to understand. Morozov was really an analyst, he knew, not a personnel man like McSorley, and Analysis types were inherently curious and prone to passionate intellectual obsessions. Apparently, Morozov’s vocation and his avocation were one and the same. 

“You know, I’m not sure this _particular_ Baron is exactly operating on those levels any more. He _is_ in exile, you know.” 

“He’ll be back in power,” said Morozov confidently. “He’s got our backing.” 

“Should I take it that part of my charge is to make sure that happens?” 

“That would be helpful, yes.” 

“By _any_ means?” 

“Within reason. Don’t commit treason against the Imperium, we can’t bail you out of that one. Other than that ...” Morozov pursed his lips and contemplated his new agent. “Well, I’m reliably informed that you have a penchant for, ah, unorthodox methods. I will confess that I am curious to see them in action.” 

_Oh, this is going to be fun_. 

_* * *_

He rejoined the Arquas at Amiri’s departure gate, where they had assembled to say goodbye to their son. (The Baron seemed to be trying to persuade him to return to Jackson’s Whole, without any visible success.) There were hugs all around, including one for Byerly. He was a bit bemused at this – not really being used to that sort of thing – but accepted it. Under his breath, Amiri said, “Tightbeam me if you’ve got questions you don’t want to ask the rest of the family, or if you just want to talk, all right?” 

“All right,” said By. And then, before he had time to collect his thoughts, Amiri had shouldered his luggage and disappeared up the boarding ramp. 

The ImpSec analyst, the grad student, and the Barrayaran crew members left the ship at their next stop, Pol Station, and then By was completely on his own. 

_* * *_

Now that they were beyond the borders of the Empire, Rish was unsurprised to find herself and Byerly called into the Baron and Baronne’s suite for a formal meeting. 

“This is going to be a test, by the way,” she warned him. 

“I’d worked that much out for myself. Do you know what this test is likely to entail?” 

“Not exactly. A situation like this one ... hasn’t come up before. But it would probably make a good impression if you did most of the talking.” _Hm-mm, let’s see how you’ll do_. “Don’t worry, I’ll have your back. Or stomp on your foot, anyway, if you say anything really wrong.” 

“If you stomped on my foot, I’d probably end up crippled for _life_.” 

“Well, that should be a good incentive not to get it wrong. So, um, how do you feel about marriage, just in case the issue comes up?” 

“Um. Open to it? I mean, assuming we’re talking about marriage to _you_ , and not marriage as an institution or theoretical concept, because I have to admit, at least as it’s practiced on Barrayar, it’s always struck me as sort of –” 

Rish cut him off, as he was starting to babble. “And ... how do you feel about not-marriage?” 

“Pretty happy with it.” 

_* * *_

The Baron and Baronne sat on one side of the table, accompanied by Pidge, who was clearly present in her professional capacity. 

The Baron turned to Byerly. “It is, I think, time that we discussed your role in the House. We understand from your Emperor that you have certain ... skills. And if we are to regard you as a _gift_ , as he suggested we ought to, it stands to reason that we might expect you to put some of those skills to work on our behalf.” 

Byerly tensed slightly, although his expression remained perfectly neutral. “You realize, of course, my first loyalty is to the Imperium.” 

“Of course,” said the Baronne. “I do not think that what we have in mind will conflict with your duties to your Imperium. It is merely a personal matter, though one of considerable importance to us.” 

“What _do_ you have in mind?” 

“We want our son back. Regardless of whether he proves to be revivable. And we want our daughter Topaz back, alive. Can we count on your help?” 

“Oh.” Rish could feel him relax, the pulse slowing slightly and his grip on her hand slackening. “That, yes. Gladly. In any way I can.” 

_Don’t get carried away, wild-caught._ She squeezed his hand a little, but she wasn’t sure whether he caught the warning against making rash, open-ended Deals with Jacksonian barons. He _did_ catch her gratitude, and squeezed back. 

“We come now to more ... intimate matters. The Barrayaran government would prefer that no formal marriage contract exist between the two of you. That is also our preference, at least for the moment.” The Baronne looked at By and Rish for a long moment; neither protested. “However, there is also the question of other, perhaps more binding ties.” 

She could see the wheels turning in By’s mind: _What’s more binding than marriage? ... Oh._ He got there, she thought, a second or two before the Baron said, “It’s been a while since we heard the pitter-patter of young feet around the family compound. An enchanting sound, I always think. I have always been fond of children, particularly little girls.” 

Her father’s preference for little girls did not convey anything in particular to Rish, but it clearly _did_ mean something to By; under the table, his hand tightened on hers. “We’ve only known each other for _two months_ ,” he said, in a slightly strangled voice. 

“Yes,” Rish added quickly, “this really seems a little premature.” 

“Naturally, you would like some more time to get to know each other,” said the Baron. “Very understandable. And, if you should prove to be ... incompatible, better to find that out before you’ve done anything permanent. Shall we say, two years? And at the end of that time, a granddaughter for us, or else passage back to your own planet for you. Alone.” 

Rish tried to shoot him a warning look: _They won’t let you go that easily. You’ll know too much._ He gave her hand another quick squeeze, which she _hoped_ meant he’d understood what was at stake, and then started tracing letters on her wrist: _Y/N?_

_Y/N about what? Kids?_ She really, _really_ should have foreseen this possibility, and talked about it. _Y?_ she tried, hoping that the question mark conveyed _but not if you don’t want to_. Except ... he wasn’t really going to have a choice, was he? Unless he decided to cut and run. 

“In my culture,” said By, “it is traditional to have a boy first. Sons are very highly valued.” 

_What?_ Rish thought. She tried to remember whether she’d _ever_ heard him say anything on the topic of traditional Barrayaran gender roles that wasn’t laced with sarcasm, and came up blank. 

She listened, disbelieving, as he proceeded to express the opinion that anything other than the fully natural method of conception and birth was an abomination, according to Barrayaran culture, and a sign of galactic degeneracy. 

“You cannot possibly expect _my beautiful Rish_ to endure a _body-birth_ ,” said the Baronne frostily. 

_More to the point_ , thought Rish, _you can’t seriously be thinking of playing genetic roulette when I know as well as you do about your heart ... oh_. Of course he wasn’t serious. And of course he wanted her to know that he wasn’t serious. _Damn_ , but the act was convincing. 

Over the next fifteen minutes, with several pauses to allow Pidge to record the terms in writing and confirm that all parties had agreed, he permitted her parents to talk him into a replicator birth, sex-selection to guarantee a daughter, and basic gene-cleaning, all of which were concessions that Rish was quite sure he had been intending to make anyway. This part was routine, and revealed only that he understood how negotiation worked; what interested her more were the terms he was planning to ask in return. 

“How about some additional genetic engineering?” asked the Baronne. “You would not, of course, wish for your child to grow up at a _disadvantage_.” 

“You’re quite right,” said Byerly. He glanced briefly at Rish, as if uncertain whether his next move would meet with her approval. “I think you’d better do ... whatever needs to be done to ensure her appearance will be more or less standard anywhere in the galaxy. In case she needs to, or chooses to make a life elsewhere.” 

_Oh, so that’s what he’s about._ Well, after the last few months, she couldn’t deny that he had a point. 

The Baronne looked displeased. “That will not require any special engineering,” she said, rather tartly. “Rish’s more distinctive features are, of course, _recessive_. One must protect one’s _intellectual property_.” 

Rish discovered, abruptly, that she didn’t much _like_ being intellectual property. 

“I have another, related condition. She is to be free to leave Jackson’s Whole, unharmed and unhindered, at any point after her eighteenth birthday. And free to choose the career and life she wants.” The Baron and Baronne started to look balky; Byerly lifted his chin and insisted, “You got to choose the circumstances of her birth. _I_ get to choose this.” 

“He’s right,” said Rish. “It’s only fair.” 

“Yes,” the Baron acknowledged, “that does seem fair.” 

“And no using her as a pawn in any marriage-brokering deals. She’s to choose her own partner, without any pressure.” 

“Hm-mm,” said the Baronne. Rish gripped By’s hand in warning. _A little too abrupt, she’s working out that everything you’ve bargained away were the things you didn’t want anyway._ But luckily, the concessions he was asking for were _also_ ones the Baron and Baronne were willing to bargain away, to judge by their treatment of their own children. 

“It worked out rather well for you when Tej did it,” Rish pointed out. “And letting Amiri go away to Escobar hasn’t turned out badly for you either.” 

“Very well. Agreed. But a bit of additional gengineering would seem to be in order, in that case, to ensure that she makes ... reasonable choices.” 

“Define ‘reasonable’,” said Byerly, and the Baronne promptly presented him with a whole laundry list of options regarding personality traits, most of which he either dismissed as unimportant (ambition) or insisted would be present in their offspring _without_ any genetic tweaking (intelligence). 

“Aesthetic sensitivity,” the Baronne suggested. “ _That’s_ important to you, isn’t it? It would enhance her dress sense, among other things.” 

“Oh,” said Byerly pleasantly. “Is _that_ where Em got her penchant for bunny slippers?” 

Rish choked. So did the Baron. 

“Well,” the Baronne admitted, “you can’t _always_ predict how it will manifest.” 

Over the next few rounds of bargaining, By agreed to heightened alcohol tolerance (the Baronne insisted that this was a safety issue, particularly for girls), and to a few other modifications. 

“We’ve been given to understand that bisexuality runs in your family,” remarked the Baronne. “If you wished, I could do some tweaking to ensure...” 

He stiffened, a little, and she could smell the adrenaline on him. _Defensive much, wild-caught?_

“... that it expresses properly.” 

“That it what?” This clearly wasn’t what he’d been expecting. 

“If the genetic tendency is already present, it’s a simple matter of adjusting the hormones in the replicator fluid. I’ve already done it with Jet. With the girls, there was no reason not to let the chips fall where they would, but I thought that if we were only going to have one male dancer, it would be prudent to ensure a certain level of ... flexibility.” 

Rish could detect a _lot_ of complex, conflicting emotions. She was going to have to explain later that the Baronne had _never_ instructed her Jewels to prostitute themselves, although she _had_ , occasionally, dropped hints that certain admirers might very well be ... encouraged, if any of them happened to find themselves so inclined. 

“I ... see,” said Byerly slowly. “But I think I’m all right with letting the chips fall where they may. As you say.” Another sideways glance at her; the look in his eyes suggested he was pretty sure he knew where they were going to fall. Also, that some small part of him was beginning to see something appealing about her parents, and her _culture_. 

“You’re driving a mighty hard bargain,” said the Baron, in a tone that suggested this was more a compliment than otherwise. “Aren’t you going to give us anything more?” 

“Well,” said Byerly, with the air of one making a great and generous concession, “you can pick some of the _names_.” 

_* * *_

Once they were alone in their cabin, Byerly flung himself on the bunk, looking wiped out. _You thought that was harrowing? Wait until you see what Jacksonian negotiations are like when everyone’s playing hardball._

“I hope I haven’t ... agreed to anything you didn’t want? Because I’m sure you can get out of it if you just talk to your parents.” 

“If I didn’t agree, I would have _spoken up_ while we were still discussing terms. It’s a Deal, now. You don’t renege on a Deal if you value your life.” 

“Why _didn’t_ you have more to say about it?” 

“I wanted to see how you’d do on your own.” 

“And ... how did I do?” 

“Very well. You played it a bit differently than I would have, but ... I think you got to most of the same places I would, in the end. They’ve been angling for grandchildren for ages, and they’ll _love_ you if you make that happen, so it’s as well that you didn’t try to get out of it.” 

“I didn’t want to get out of it. I ... actually like the idea of having a child. I think I’ve liked it for a while, I just didn’t think I had much in the way of actual _prospects_.” 

Rish nodded. She’d picked up enough about the culture to know that Barrayarans, in general, were baby-mad, and she’d also learned not to be surprised when By turned out to be more conventionally Barrayaran than he pretended. _She_ had never exactly been baby-mad, herself, but she’d caught her mind drifting in that direction now and again over the past two months, and she found that the idea sounded more appealing than it had when she was younger. Anyway, _one_ sounded like a nice, manageable number, and it wasn’t like they’d ever run short of potential babysitters. 

There was, however, one thing that still puzzled her. “Why were they so insistent on having a girl?” 

“Ah. Pidge has no doubt briefed them on Barrayaran custody law. A girl is _yours_. If we split up, or if anything should happen to me, the mother automatically gets custody. With a boy, it’s the father, or the father’s male relatives.” 

“So you knew it was a hostage negotiation from the beginning.” 

“Of course I did. Hostage negotiation is your family’s _business_ , after all.” 

“Will you be ... wanting a hostage of your own?” 

“Not unless you really want me to have one. I’d much rather have a little girl and leave it at that. Also, there’s a small problem, in that if I had a son and anything happened to me, my _father_ would legally have custody, and he ... very definitely _shouldn’t_. If and when the old pinchmark finally drops off, we can revisit.” 

Rish laid a hand on his shoulder. “You’ll do better than he did. You know that, right?” 

“Well, I should _hope_ so! I wouldn’t have said _yes_ if I didn’t think I would.” He stared off into space for a few moments, and then said, “So, are you feeling up to a celebratory drink? Or a _what-have-we-wrought?_ drink, depending on how we decide we feel about the thing.” 

“All right,” said Rish. She was getting a little more accustomed to the jumps, and the extra medication was helping. 

“Champagne? I always find that champagne helps _immensely_ when my stomach’s a bit unsettled, particularly when it’s very good champagne, which Vormercier’s ought to be, because _I_ was the one who did the buying. It’s also much more fun to drink if it’s someone _else’s_ champagne, I always think, except Vormercier never reimbursed me, so I guess it’s mine now.” 

“Didn’t your employers reimburse you?” 

“Come to think of it, they _did_. I suppose if you look at it that way, it’s _Guy Allegre’s_ champagne. _Delightful_.” 

_* * *_

They sat on the bunk drinking Guy Allegre’s champagne out of the little tooth-glasses from the lavatory and toasting everything that popped into their heads. The future. Jump-sickness pills. Hostage negotiation. Having a kid who could go _absolutely anywhere_ and be anything she liked. 

“Of course, when your mother came up with that line about recessive genes and intellectual property ...” Byerly smirked, as if amused at some private joke. 

“What?” 

“All I could think was, she doesn’t know about _my_ family’s tendency to marry their _cousins_. Our great-great-grandchildren could be ... very spectacular indeed. I’m only sorry I won’t live to see them.” 

“ _I_ might, wild-caught.” She was still coming to terms with this side of things, but she found that it didn’t seem as _impossible_ as it had before. 

He smiled and kissed her. “Then you’ll have to come and find me, wherever I am. Afterward, I mean. And tell me all about them.” 

~ THE END ~ 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The springing-Topaz story is [here](http://archiveofourown.org/works/6112777/chapters/14010976).


End file.
